


The Binding of Tyr

by Schnikeys, zapperthecat



Series: Fenrir's Pack [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Wrangling, Canon-Typical Violence, Contextually Normative Polycules, Don’t copy to another site, Eliksni, M/M, Multi, Other, Roleplay Logs, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-20 05:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 66,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schnikeys/pseuds/Schnikeys, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zapperthecat/pseuds/zapperthecat
Summary: Instead of tearing Variks the Loyal's arms off before the Uprising at Cybele, Skolas the Rabid listens to his scribe several years earlier, after the Eos Clash. The Wolves flourish; but what are the other consequences?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an edited, NOT reformatted RP transcript! Perspective/writer swaps will be indicated by the "--" marker.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Eos Clash, Skolas and his barons plan for the Raze of Amethyst. Variks observes.

\-- _Skolas_ \--

His barons leave him to the quiet gloom of the war room. Skolas listens to the doors slide shut behind them, cutting off the heavy sounds of their armored boots, and he closes his eyes in the ensuing silence. Inhales, slow, steady, holds the breath. Exhales, slow, steady, his shoulders falling in time.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees the plans laid out before him, the combined efforts of Beltrik, Drevis, and Pirsis. He runs his hand through the holograms, manipulates them, reviewing the information they'd left behind. To his right, a map of Amethyst. To his left, Parixas's ketch. In the middle, Iris, shining brilliantly bright. Around those images are lists of resources, what they have, what they need, what might be required. 

This is it, then. The shape of their revenge against the Reef, the shape of Parixas's downfall. Or at least, the beginnings of such. This is still just a proposal: there was a lot to sort through still, but...

It's a start.

\-- _Variks_ \--

Standing a good several arms lengths back from his kell’s shoulder, Variks of House Judgment stares at the parts of the holographic display he can see in dismay.

This is going beyond the pale. This plan is a disaster of an entirely different caliber from Eos; Peekis had been foolish, wasteful. This plan is excellently thought out, cunning... cruel. It will work, and it will push the twin-souled aliens that much closer to cutting their losses.

Variks can privately admit to himself that he was dismayed by Irxis’s death. Like it or not, Skolas and his band are, incredibly, looking to come out on top. And Variks is here, practically useless in his fear of reprisal for doing his _job_.

Variks must do something. He must _try_. He must trust that Skolas will not immediately kill him.

“<My kell,>” Variks says softly, eyes downturned.

\--

The sound of holograms being manipulated ceases. Backlit by an outline of blue, Skolas's silhouette is still… and dangerously quiet. Slowly, the kell turns his broad, helmeted head, peering back at the little nothing in the shadows, eyes dim.

The silence stretches out, just long enough to begin being uncomfortable, just long enough to test Variks. Then.

"<Speak.>"

\--

Variks's irritation increases with every second of pointless posturing. Who does Skolas think he is fooling, acting like a caricature of a lofty kell? It’s not even been a year since the Scatter, not been a year since Skolas was last throwing himself bodily at every hint of a fight.

Not a shred of his thoughts ripples the smooth surface of his demeanor. “<It is a cunning and clever plan, my kell. How shall we predict the reprisal of the aliens?>”

Because there _will_ be repercussions for slaughtering a station filled with soldiers, yes, but also _civilians_. Every evidence of these... Reefborn suggests a pride to rival the kells, combined with an alien sense of morality and comeuppance. Everything from that blood-chilling transmission of the alien queen’s before the Scatter to the poise of their fighting tactics. And everything says that the aliens could pull something like those superweapons out again.

\--

"<They will feel half of the grief and rage they've imposed upon us,>" Skolas answers, blasé and flat, turning back to the holograms. "<And they will try to hunt us down.>"

That matter had never been in doubt. The tactics for dealing with the aftermath of this ploy are something else they will have to flesh out. Coping with the reintegration of Parixas's troops is also something the split House will have to accommodate, too. It will be a messy few months, if not years.

\--

“<Astute, my kell.>” Oh, good, Skolas is fully aware of the repercussions and merely underestimates the fallout. Swell. “<How shall their escalation be dealt with?>”

Variks already feels himself wilting at the sheer magnitude of everything he’s going to have to tiptoe around in this line of conversation. Can’t take the angle of “why is this sort of excess being considered an acceptable tactic”, as there is the simple (if fallacious) example of everyone killed in the Scatter. Can’t ask why they are planning to cause two problems at the same time, namely the reintegration of Parixas’s followers (when they have _barely_ integrated Irxis’s!) and the ire of the Reef aliens. Great Machine.

Skolas will not take his counsel directly, Variks reminds himself. He must lead Skolas _to_ the conclusion. Feign foolishness. That is already essentially his opinion of Variks.

\--

"<With our own escalation.>"

Skolas stops again, placing his hands atop the table, closing his eyes.

"<Where are you doing with this?>" he asks, quietly.

\--

Sometimes he forgets that Skolas has a brain under all that belligerence.

“<What do you mean, my kell?>” Variks asks, genuinely. “<If you do not wish to indulge my curiosity, you need only say the word.>” 

\--

There's that gaze over his shoulder again, narrowed this time and laden with distrust.

"<_Where_.>" And he says it with all the dangerous quiet of someone who should never have to repeat their words. "<Are you going with this, scribe?>"

\--

A small bow, a facial expression of mild confusion. "<I suppose I wanted to know more about what is planned for 'our own escalation', my kell,>" Variks says blandly, innocently. "<You have clearly already thought about it, if you will forgive my presumption.>"

Variks does not think that Skolas has thought about it, but he certainly isn’t going to say that.

\--

"<We will _kill_ them!>" Eyes bright, Skolas slams his fist down atop the table hard enough that the entire room shakes. "<The specifics of _how_ will be sorted out in due time.>"

Slowly, he inhales, tries to rein in the sudden rush of anger, glaring at Variks. Then, deeming him unworthy of further acknowledgment, the kell turns back to his work, movements stiff.

\--

Dangerous. Very dangerous. Variks carefully breathes his heart rate back down. "<Well, I had taken 'killing them' as a given, my kell,>" Variks says, just a hint of humor in his voice. "<Why not work out the 'how' now? Surely your barons are as eager to wreak vengeance as you are. And clearly, this bout of planning has been quite fruitful.>"

This rankles, having to walk this fine line between uselessness and death. It should not _be_ like this.

\--

That barest hint of humor makes Skolas bristle, but he is not quite at the end of his short patience yet. He quietly debates dismissing Variks before he decides to yank the fool's head off his shoulders and then steadies himself instead. Variks hasn't committed any wrong. Not yet.

"<Why are you so interested?>" he interrogates, pulling up a set of screens for his own personal notes. 

\--

This... genuinely puzzles Variks. He blinks. "<...What do you mean, my kell?>"

\--

"<You wish to influence my thoughts on this matter,>" Skolas answers with stiff patience. "<What I can't figure out is why.>"

\--

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. What? “<...I am your scribe, my kell,>” Variks says, genuinely confounded.

\--

A snort. "<And I have been in the upper politics of this House long enough to know when someone wishes to manipulate me.>"

\--

A slight frown makes its way onto his face. What? “<I am your _scribe_, my kell,>” Variks repeats more emphatically. Surely Skolas cannot be so dense as to think he is some House underling making some kind of... political maneuver.

\--

Again, Skolas stops what he's doing, carefully curling his claws against the table and tries for patience.

"<I do not care what you are.>" There's an undercurrent of poorly restrained violence. "<Speak plainly or _leave_.>"

\--

He will do no such thing, since then Skolas will _definitely_ kill him, but how to balance this?

“<I am your scribe,>” Variks repeats carefully. “<It is my purpose and duty to be your advisor. It would be bizarre indeed if I were not interested in your strategies, yes?>”

“<I only wish to do my duty as a provider of counsel and listening ear,>” Variks continues evenly. “<I think I must be misunderstanding what you are asking for, my kell. Forgive my slowness.>”

\--

He doesn't trust it. But there's something in Variks's tones that stops him from dismissing the Scribe immediately, something that stems the rush of anger.

He doesn't trust it. But for now, he will humor Variks.

"<Fine,>" he mutters.

\--

He watches Skolas’s back warily. Voice smooth, Variks says, “<I seek to remedy my ignorance, my kell, by your leave. How shall I speak plainly?>”

\--

The question earns Variks another, warier look. In the end, he doesn't deign to answer it: Variks is likely playing stupid. He still doesn't know _why_, however.

"<Their grasp on stealth technology is limited from what our spies have told us,>" Skolas says instead. "<The rest of their tech is pathetically easy to crack to the point where even a dreg with some decent processing power pulled from scraps could do it. They may have the Harbingers on their side, but they are only good as weapons of mass destruction. Less of an issue with the fleet spread out. We use subterfuge. We pick them apart little by little.>"

\--

A little prickle of triumph bubbles up before Variks mercilessly crushes it down. Don’t get confident. Confidence will get him killed here.

Variks tilts his head to the side as he thinks. This is going to be complicated to pick apart without sounding too critical.

The biggest problem is that they _don’t_ know what the Reef is capable of. They don't know the Reef, they don't even understand how the Harbingers work - and for all that their tech is relatively uncomplicated, there is still the matter of those technologically enhanced alien specialists Variks has been picking up hints of - Techs? Techeuns. "<So all of their strategic advantages have been tallied, then?>"

\--

"<...>"

No. They know so little of their enemy. They have a kell: Mara Sov. They have the Harbingers. The reason for their attack upon the Wolves still remains a mystery: the initial speculations were territory related, but that hadn't been confirmed. They know little of the people beyond whispers of their twin-souled nature from the edges of the Shores. They know that these Awoken do not stray beyond the Jovians because of the Nine.

Beyond that, their information is sparse.

\--

Skolas has not turned around. Variks is reasonably sure that Skolas is answering Variks's question in his head, and that the answer is "no, their advantages have not been tallied". But he cannot interrupt.

Would Skolas react more poorly if Variks were to prompt him, or if he remained silent?

Variks opts for silence, settling his facial expression into patient attentiveness.

\--

"<What do you think of these aliens, scribe?>" Skolas says, at last, pulling up another piece of document from Drevis and scrolling through it. "<You seem awful curious about the matter.>"

\--

A _real request for counsel_ \- if pointed. But still.

Variks mulls over his words. "<Our Houses arrived in this system several hundred years ago.>" He starts slowly. "<Our technology is far superior to that which the Humans have stolen from the Machine.>" (Although Variks privately thinks that they likely didn't take anything the Machine didn't give, troubling as the thought is.)

"<We have seen examples of these Void-touched creatures elsewhere, and yet there were only the vaguest theories that there was an organized settlement in the Belt. Virixas would have arranged precautions if he'd had any hint of a power like the one the alien kell used - how could he not know? How could they have hidden the possibility of defeat from him so thoroughly? What could they still be hiding? The implications worry me, my kell.>"

Frankly, Variks thinks it likely that Virixas discounted the very thought that the aliens could have a hidden advantage. But, despite a few glaring exceptions, Virixas was not an unintelligent kell. Just prideful. Variks will readily lean on that if it means Skolas might process the possibility of being outflanked in a similar manner.

\--

Silence again, although Skolas's hand stills, hovering a few inches away from the screen, frowning quietly in thought.

"<We cannot be paralyzed by the unknown,>" he declares quietly. "<They attacked our people once before: they will do it again. We need to gather information. We also need to deal with Parixas.>"

\--

“<Of course, my kell,>” Variks replies.

And adds nothing else, because that does not actually contradict any of the concerns _he_ just voiced. Paralysis is to be avoided, information is to be gathered, rival claimants are to be murdered, hopefully by pitting their enemies against each other. And simultaneously, they should be acting with the assumption that the Belt aliens could pull more Harbingers or similar out of their collective vents without warning.

\--

"<What reprisals do you worry of, then?>"

This, Skolas is curious about.

\--

How to phrase this... does Skolas even know if the concept of “civilians”? Likely not.

"<As far as intel suggests, my kell,>" Variks says, "<The aliens have a dedicated class of adult noncombatants, consisting of workers, caretakers, manufacturers, and academics. Because conceptually they cannot defend themselves adequately, attacks upon this 'civilian' class are culturally viewed as only slightly less offensive than assaults on children.>"

Variks taps his fingers silently on his staff. "<You mentioned visiting upon them our grief, my kell. But they seem prideful, not properly cowed by displays of superior force and just reprisal. I worry that should they perceive greater insult, they will call worse things from the dark, heedless of increased cost to themselves. Things we cannot predict. They are a large unknown.>"

More practically, Variks would guess that a populace used to isolationism would not be of one mind about attacking the Wolves, whatever the reason. There could be dissident voices among those aliens; those voices would likely be silenced at the death of their people’s children.

\--

"<Noncombatants,>" Skolas echoes, dismissing the screen with a flick of his hand and bringing up another. "<I suppose any conjuring of unknown weapons would trouble our attempts at eradicating them.>"

He cares little about what they perceive: he wants them dead. But... Variks has a point, annoyingly enough. And Skolas is just curious enough to continue humoring him.

"<What alternative would you propose?>"

\--

Could Skolas actually be considering his words? "<The cleverness of this plan lies in the obfuscation of the trick,>" Variks starts, quiet and steady as he nods at Skolas's back. "<Drevis and her stealth agents infiltrate the station and slaughter the residents, to which the only response from the aliens would naturally be outrage borne of grief. This is low-risk on our part since they likely do not expect any attacks due to the situation with Parixas. It incites them to chase Drevis without stopping to analyze why she would bother to attack when, again, Parixas is our main concern. Having drawn Parixas himself to Iris, our foes shall attack each other.>"

Variks shrugs. "<An excellent, efficient plan, with a low chance of risk, which will likely enable a more accurate estimate of both forces. The crucial part is to incite the Reef into an enraged chase while maintaining minimal risk for ourselves. Therefore, instead of massacre, I would propose taking as many of the station's residents captive as possible.>"

He watches Skolas's posture. What is he thinking of this proposal? "<It opens up future possibilities, while also ensuring even less risk to ourselves; depending on whether or not Parixas prevails, the captives could be used as leverage. Ransom. They are, by all estimates, small in number, so it stands to reason that they would be even warier of attacking if there were even greater risk harm could come to their own.>"

\--

... Capture?

Slowly, Skolas taps his claw against the top of the table, gaze distant and unseeing of the open document in front of him.

"<We will have to spare resources to take care of them,>" he points out. "<And we know very little of their kind. Would we even have the facilities to accommodate prisoners? Or are you proposing that we immediately ice them?>"

\--

“<That would be wisest, my kell.>” Variks agrees. “<Aside from the logistical concerns of housing aliens, I have seen troubling references to whatever that Kell of theirs can do, specifically with regards to...>” He pauses. “<Sensing her subjects,>” he finishes distastefully. “<Either way, it would simplify things. In a pinch, one could jettison stasis crates full of prisoners to create a distraction.>”

\--

"<How do we know that her powers do not extend into their sleep?>" Skolas quizzes. "<Furthermore, would they attack Parixas as viciously as we desire if they know we have prisoners?>"

\--

“<We do not even know if or how her powers work when they are awake, my kell>” Variks notes. “<I have only found hints of such capabilities. As you astutely say, we cannot be paralyzed by indecision, yes?>”

"<And that is why I mentioned jettisoning stasised prisoners, my kell. The strategy could be modified as such; Drevis enters the station by stealth and takes aliens prisoner, with every appearance that she intends to go unnoticed. The aliens, perhaps ones still left on the station, alert their fleet, and chase Drevis to Iris. Drevis jettisons some of the captives once near Iris to create the appearance that she is attempting to get them to stop chasing her by cutting her losses, but they will likely continue to pursue 'her' for the insult. Parixas' ambushes' the aliens, they fight each other, with the aliens now assuming that 'Drevis' has no more captives aboard, and from that point, hopefully, we shall have one fewer enemy, and collateral.>"

It's a little more complicated than "slaughter everyone as bait", but less likely to bite them later.

\--

"<We learn more about the capabilities of our enemies with minimal cost to us.>"

The scale of the response to the kidnappings, how difficult or easy the prisoners might be to capture, how easy it might be for the Queen and her underlings to find them. They would even have a chance to run scans on the anatomy of these aliens, possibly even in enough detail to have the Servitors run simulations before Drevis would have to jettison them.

It would cost only a few dozen cryo units considering the estimated population of the station. Not too big of an ordeal with their glimmer stores.

There is only one problem.

"<We delay our vengeance for this.>"

\--

He steels himself. Arms himself with an expression of mild puzzlement. “<My kell, I am sorry, but I think I do not understand. How is this delaying vengeance?>”

\--

"<Capturing their people is not killing them, Scribe.>" Skolas hums as he taps a series of notes into the open document. "<You are asking for patience from my Wolves. You are asking for compassion from the masses still grieving from the Scatter. They will think I prioritize the death of my rival over the vengeance of my people.>"

\--

“<...I think I am not understanding how capturing them and using them as bait while incidentally gathering more intel to ensure their destruction is compassionate, my kell.>”

Variks shrugs. “<And dealing with Parixas before making concerted attempts upon the Reef is simply what most people assume needs to be done anyways. Most surmise that it is impractical to enact vengeance on behalf of a divided people.>” Variks does not address the “impatience” aspect since he suspects that is Skolas’s main issue here.

\--

That first comment earns Variks a _look_. Not killing them is _compassion_ when your pack is entirely composed of murderers, and your policies and actions thus far have enabled them.

It is not, however, worth pointing out and so Skolas does not do so. What Variks says afterward is far more interesting, regardless.

"<You seem to know a lot about my Wolves, Scribe.>"

\--

“<...Yes, my kell,>” Variks replies, thoroughly befuddled _again_. What does Skolas think he’s here for? What does Skolas think he has been doing? “<I seek to fulfill my duties as best I can, my kell.>”

\--

Yet another bout of silence, this time however a curious one rather than one borne of impatience and barely leashed anger. Skolas's expression remains unreadable as he draws himself up, turning off the hologram table with a wave of his hand.

"<I will relay your thoughts to Beltrik,>" he says at last.

\--

Oh, dear. Now does not seem the time to remind Skolas that kells are supposed to attribute private counsel to themselves, but... Beltrik is a high-ranked baron, and a reasonable sort, for a certain value of reasonable. It shouldn't be... too risky for Variks.

“<You are wisdom and cunning, my kell,>” Variks says, bowing correctly.

\--

The praise is ignored beyond the barest flicker of annoyance. Skolas turns and strides out of the room, his heavy cape flowing behind him. Over his shoulder he says, "<Are you going to shadow me for that, too?>"

\--

"<If it displeases you, you may, of course, waive my duties, my kell.>" Which is a "yes, as I have been shadowing you literally every second since you claimed to kell, because that is my job and I am trying to help, and there are no other scribes, but obviously I cannot directly disobey you outside of the bounds of our accord, you disrespectful child"-

But obviously, Variks can’t say that, so it’s edited.

\--

"<Hm.>"

And with that helpful answer, Skolas slips out into the hallway, pinging Beltrik for a follow-up meeting in an hour. For now, he has other ship-side matters to attend to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know what you think of the formatting; we're trying a bunch of things out!
> 
> EDIT:  
_WANTED: Grayor, Wolf Assassin  
STATUS: Escaped from the Prison of Elders; AT LARGE  
The Maraid, Book VIII, Chapter 3  
Abstract:  
With Skolas and Parixas still fighting, no one expected either to attack the Reef. So by the time Paladin Abra Zire arrived at Amethyst it was too late: the Silent Fang, led by Drevis herself had massacred almost everyone in the station, including Coven Leader Pinar Venj.  
Paladin Zire gave chase, and followed the Fang to Iris, where, behind the glare of Iris' brightness, a Wolf ketch lay in wait. But the ketch was no match for Zire's smaller, faster ships, or her ferocity.  
When the Battle of Iris was over, however, it was not Drevis at Zire's' feet. It was Parixas.  
Grayor, another of Skolas' loyal vassals, had attacked Parixas' ketch at the same time that Drevis had attacked Amethyst. He, too, had lured Parixas to Iris, then the Silent Fang had used Iris' unusual brightness to disappear just as Zire and Parixas arrived in the system._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Battle of Iris, Skolas tries not to reflect. Variks observes.

Well, it had worked. Worked shockingly well, really - Variks had worried that either Parixas or the Reef wouldn't take the bait, but both fell on each other like...well. Wolves. And on top of that, they had Awoken prisoners.

Everything went as well as could be expected, which was still fairly bad given the primary target was a former partner of the kell. The kell in truth, now. The Wolves would unite behind Skolas, now.

It was a good thing they managed to find _any_ of Parixas's body.

Variks watches Skolas with particular attentiveness during the strategy meeting following the funeral. Even the funeral itself had been relatively promising with regards to public opinion - an excellent, fair-minded move, to hold proper rites for one's rival.

It was foreboding with regards to Skolas's own reaction. Which he is apparently attempting to pretend isn't a reaction he's having, the childish fool. How is Variks supposed to help when he feels a knife held over his neck every time he offers even the most _benign_ input, and Skolas won't _ask for it?_

It is becoming increasingly clear how much of the kell-scribe accord rests on tradition rather than actual enforced obligation.

\--

It was Skolas who had initiated the All-Call for Virixas's funeral, as well. The funeral for all those lost in the attack at Ceres, back before the tensions between the three high barons had split the House. He had waited a week for Irxis to do it, had watched Irxis and Parixas circle each other with quiet, simmering rage. It was Parixas who had broken the grief-filled silence after the Call and announced his claim on the throne.

So began their civil war.

Neither Virixas nor Irxis had left anything behind to return to ether. The confirmation of their deaths had to come from their surviving partnered servitors. Skolas had sliced a finger from each of his lower hands and offered them to his high servitor in their stead. And Parixas...

There had been just enough left of Parixas.

United, the Wolves had returned to the battle site at Iris, and the Paladins had retreated quickly at their show of force. 

Skolas is the kell in true now, the sole remaining claimant to the throne. Archon Aksor stands with him. The barons of his rivals have been executed, and the divided House stands, whole again, around him.

In the aftermath of it all, alone in an observation deck, Skolas stands, utterly still in the projected starlight, reflecting in silence.

And, silently, he tries not to crumble.

\--

Variks has more often seen Skolas channel his distress into rage rather than trying to quash it down like he seems to be doing now.

Unfortunately, this means that if provoked, if provided a target, Skolas will probably be happy to return to the former reaction.

Variks stands to the side of the observation deck, ostensibly perusing his notes. Usually, this is a silent process. But, as he watches his kell... he's not sure if Skolas _wants_ to brood, or if he simply does not see another option. It might be a good idea to try and help with...whatever this is, regardless of the danger. So he shuffles the datapads, quietly, but not quite silently. Just enough to make a noise.

\--

The soft sound shakes Skolas out of his numb quiet, and he straightens up slowly, setting his shoulders square and true. He hadn't forgotten, exactly, that he wasn't alone, but he'd needed the reminder. He stifles the urge to sigh, turning his head to peer over his mantle at Variks.

"<Scribe.>"

\--

"<My kell,>" Variks responds, soft and solemn. The hairs on his neck prickle. Skolas must be hurting, and thus he is dangerous.

(Variks is getting the inkling that Skolas does not trust him. But _why?_)

\--

"<The House is unified again.>" Skolas tips his head. "<You should be joining the barons in their drinking.>"

It's not a celebration. Not exactly. No one in the room had been particularly happy for all that their hard work and warring had finally paid off.

\--

_You are not drinking either, Skolas_, Variks wants to say.

"<I am content here, my kell,>" he says instead. "<I will leave if you wish.>" Not to go drinking, mind you. Getting smashed to 'commemorate' their success was not something Variks wagered the barons would want to include him in.

\--

A snort, but the sound is more tired than derisive. Skolas turns away once more.

"<Do as you please. It matters little to me.>"

He's never known how to deal with Variks. Not a soldier. Not a priest. Just a strange little shadow of an outsider that follows him around the Ketch. At least he's gotten used to the small presence enough that he isn't an annoyance anymore.

\--

"<Then by your leave I shall remain, my kell.>" On the one hand, that stings a little. On another hand, Skolas sounds troublingly open about his exhaustion, when he's clearly not considered Variks a confidant.

Dilemmas, dilemmas; does he speak? Does he offer Skolas the confidential listening ear that is his due? Or will that invite ire in place of fatigue?

Variks opts to move a little closer - still well out of striking range, and not openly looking at Skolas, but clearly present.

\--

Eyes focused on a distant Jupiter, Skolas stifles another sigh at the presence he can feel creeping just a little closer. Alright. Perhaps he's not quite adjusted to Variks after all.

"<Scribe,>" he warns. "<If you wish to stay, at least speak.>"

\--

And there it is. "<About what, my kell?>"

More clues; Skolas is not comfortable with his silent presence when consciously aware of it.

\--

"<_You_ seem to have something on your mind.>" Seeing as Variks is the one creeping up to _him_. Skolas pins the smaller eliksni with a look of bemusement.

\--

He chances a tiny self-deprecating grin. "<Yes, my kell.>" Variks remembers as a child always being told that he must have a skiff fleet stuffed in his skull. It's almost hard to remember, now, having been too young then for the kind of mental discipline he has mastered by now.

Variks’s expression sobers, and, deciding to dare it, he returns Skolas’s gaze with a level one of his own. “<I would wager you have many things on your mind as well, my kell.>”

\--

"<Hm.>" He still doesn't know what game this is, but he'll play along. "<The integration of Parixas's ranks, the issue of troop morale, our available resources, the information obtained from the alien prisoners. Take your pick.>"

Thrilling topics, truly.

\--

Variks tilts his head to the side. Skolas is humoring him. Progress. "<I am always interested in your strategic thoughts, should you want to verbalize them, my kell.>" Irritating, to rephrase all of these basic interactions in a way Skolas might not reject. But necessary.

\--

The vague answer sparks his impatience, and Skolas's quiet bemusement turns into a glower. Clamping his mandibles against his jaw, he quietly tamps the little bout of temper down.

"<I have given the order for the high captains to reinforce peace as well as they can, but I foresee the integration of these new bands being as difficult as with Irxis's.>"

\--

Hm. Something set him off there. Noting it for later, Variks inquires "<What do you think is causing the greatest issues, with reintegration?>" He shrugs carefully. "<I have thoughts, but of course you understand your Wolves better, my kell.>"

\--

"<Their favored claimant has fallen and Skolas, the Rabid, stands in his place.>" He is well aware of his unpopularity, his infamy. "<I do not imagine this to be a particularly easy shift to make.>"

\--

Interesting, for Skolas to choose his potentially unflattering epithet there.

"<You were a strong candidate, and you _are_ performing your duties admirably. What, in particular, could be making the transition difficult to process or accept, my kell? Your people are intelligent, as are you. Surely they must have been misled as to your strengths.>"

Of course, Variks knows why people would not back Skolas. It is sometimes harder to parse why people _did_ in the first place. But Skolas shows flashes, just _flashes_ of potential. This can be cultivated. Variks has to believe it.

\--

"<I was. The last. Pick.>" Variks isn't stupid; the scribe would know this. Indeed, Variks hadn't fallen into Skolas's grasp willingly; it had been by sheer luck that the scribe ended up in Skolas's fleet. "<I was the newest initiate to my kell's upper echelon. My claim to kellship was accompanied by inexperience. My victory over Irxis, wasteful. My victory over Parixas, won for me by alien hands.>"

\--

Variks frowns in earnest. "<Won _by_ you _by means of_ cunning strategy, my kell,>” Variks corrects. He directs a pointed gaze at Skolas. “<Forgive me, my kell, but I do not know how you want me to respond to the rest of what you said.>” Does Skolas actually want honesty from Variks? All evidence points to the contrary. Points to interpreting it as insolence.

\--

Regret strikes immediately, and Skolas bristles. He is kell true, now; these are not doubts he should be voicing anymore, least of all to a member of another House.

It is too late to take back the words, however, and instead, Variks's answer is a tense, wary silence.

"<Your thoughts,>" Skolas says, after a very, very long pause, his tone carefully neutral. "<On the reintegration.>"

\--

Variks tilts his head to the side, slowly. Skolas voiced an appropriate and personally unflattering observation to Variks. He then immediately tensed up. Hm.

"<Your assessment is insightful, my kell,>" Variks finally says. "<Many who chose Irxis or Parixas consciously, instead of simply following their captains or barons, consider you inexperienced and overly belligerent. Too eager to jump at aggression before considering all options, yes?>"

Variks shrugs, indicates ambivalence. "<Your most recent actions have belied this, and many are now unsure of their assessments. They are being treated with respect, you honored both rival claimants properly, and you were appropriately benevolent in only executing Irxis and Parixas's barons, not their high captains. Your policies, thus far, are causing many to withhold judgment for the time being.>"

Folding his hands, Variks continues. "<After all, regardless of how it was done, you _did_ best the other two. One through brute force, and one through cleverness. It speaks well of strategic flexibility.>”

Finally, he falls silent and tilts his head down, looking at Skolas warily. That was more honest appraisal than he’s given Skolas in the entire time they have been partnered. He hopes it won’t get his head ripped off.

\--

The frank words catch Skolas off-guard. Already unbalanced, he struggles for an appropriate response. The silence stretches out further than is appropriate.

_Kell_, snarls the voice in his head. _You are kell! Begin acting like it, you fumbling idiot!_

"<I see.>" Loosening the hard clench of his fists, Skolas stomps down his reflexive distrust, keeps his eyes on the stretch of open space before him. "<I hope your judgment of the situation is correct. These next few months mark the beginning of a new era for the House of Wolves, and I foresee the transition being difficult for us all.>"

\--

The smile on his face is a real one as he bows slightly in agreement. Oh, Variks registered the curiously long pause, the tenseness of Skolas's arms, but Variks simply files those details away for later. More things to consider, pieces to the puzzle of Skolas's actions. "<I hear and agree, my kell. New reigns always have adjustment periods, and you have been granted the additional disadvantage of aggressive, unfamiliar aliens, yes?>"

Variks waves a hand demonstratively. "<You also have competent barons who genuinely adore you - not always a given, for kells - and several victories under your belt. Among other boons.>"

And, Variks hopes, himself. Of course, Skolas has many more disadvantages - his own inexperience, as mentioned, his temper, the bloodlust of said barons, his apparent disregard for House Judgment outside of these strange moments of permissiveness - but this is a start.

\--

Skolas breathes and tries to think of a topic change. "<In the data we mined from Amethyst, the Splicers discovered the whereabouts of a major asteroid designated 10 Hygiea, the location of one of our enemy's libraries. Perhaps their largest.>"

Folding his arms, Skolas wills the tension out of his shoulders, slowly, slowly.

"<Pirsis has proposed to steal the data. And then burn it all down.>"

\--

“<...Er. I must not have been there when she explained why she thinks it strategically valuable to destroy it, my kell.>”

Variks knows very well that Pirsis just wants to burn things. He also noticed that Skolas completely changed the subject, and visibly calmed himself. Very well. Another thing to note.

\--

The absence of the weight of his amputated finger is peculiarly uncomfortable against the crook of his elbow.

"<Why would it not be?>" Skolas asks, genuinely curious under the muted, ever-present simmer under his plates. "<We destroy the central hub of their publicly accessible knowledge. We get one step closer to erasing them entirely from their miserable little existence.>"

\--

“<I do not think I entirely follow, my kell,>” Variks says carefully. “<Regardless of whether it is indeed a central hub, open destruction does hold value as a psychological attack. However, it would hold similar detriments as a massacre on Amethyst, and we would lose the element of surprise.>”

\--

"<Surprise will only be so useful when they've used the space we've given them to build up resources for another attack.>" Tipping his head very, very slightly, the growing kell frowns slightly. "<And we have given them a great deal of space, scribe.>"

\--

“<They will not know what to build if they do not know what we do and do not know,>” Variks points out. “<Their strength is quite clearly not in resources, but in underhanded, unpredictable tricks.>”

\--

"<...>" Narrowing his eyes, Skolas turns towards the stars once more.

He wants the Awoken to die. 

He wants them to pay for the Scatter, for Virixas, for the broken House left in the wake of their late kell's death. He wants them to pay for the shattered nurseries, the hatchling-corpses hanging silently in the airless vacuum, the crushed child-bodies never to grow or see starlight ever again.

He wants to erase every trace of their existence, he wants them annihilated utterly, he wants them to pay.

But in the grief-numbed aftermath of Parixas's death, he finds space to think beyond the rage for once, and the question haunts him.

Is he being short-sighted?

"<Convince me,>" he says quietly, so soft it's little more than a whisper.

\--

Variks blinks, disarmed by the lengthy quiet and the language more suited to a Wolf inferior. That melancholy tone. 

“<They must know our intel on them is lacking,>” Variks says, voice soft. “<It is why they were bold enough to attack out of nowhere and subside just as quickly. They are likely few in number and limited in resources, but they know this asteroid belt far better than we do. If they know we have the information of Hygiea, their strategies will change accordingly.>”

Variks spreads a hand demonstratively. "<If instead, there was a large massing of forces at a prominent military installation, and the Silent Fang obtained the data of Hygiea with the Reef unaware, we would gain a massive intel advantage.>"

\--

The words... make sense. 

Without the constant din of hurt and fury to cut through, listening is easier. Skolas turns the words over in his mind, carefully, slowly, examining with exhausted carefulness. 

Patience, here. He needs... patience.

He's never been good with patience. His reputation is built on fleet-footed thinking and a willingness to go to lengths of brutality his enemies and fellow Wolves cowed away from. He’s the one who took up the mantle when no one else would, executing Virixas's worst nightmares. 

But he is kell now. The survival of his people hinges on his ability to navigate these new paths. He has already thrown away so many lives in the competition with the other kell candidates, and he cannot afford to be so callous any longer.

He must hold the remaining lives more preciously than he ever had as a baron.

Patience. 

"<We can find what moves they are making and prepare pre-emptive measures,>" Skolas agrees quietly at last. "<Tech made on the foundations that we might understand better through the stolen data. Tech they would not have thought us able to understand. We shore our resources. Pick up the pieces of ourselves.>"

Unfortunate, sometimes, how honor and survival often contradicted each other.

\--

Skolas listened, Skolas _listened!_ Will wonders never cease? 

"<Indeed, my kell,>" Variks says, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

(That silence. So odd.)

“<With the opportunity to gather resources, there will be time to heal the wounds of loss,>” Variks adds impulsively. “<Such great wounds grief leaves, yes?>”

\--

Closing his eyes, Skolas breathes in soundlessly.

"<Tomorrow, once my barons have peeled themselves off of the floor, we finish taking inventory and continue repairs.>" Pulling away from the simulated starscape, the kell turns, peering down at Variks with an unreadable expression. "<After that, we start planning for 10 Hygiea.>"

\--

Variks bows again under that gaze. “<You are wise, my kell.>”

Skolas isn’t wise. But Variks is fast developing the dangerous hope that he _could_ be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Fun fact: in canon, eliksni servitors can use organic compounds to manufacture ether! From this, we developed the headcanon that proper eliksni burial involves being consecrated by a servitor and processed into ether, as a symbol of circularity.  
  
  
_"Finally, Beltrik, the Veiled left the Hildians and massed his fleet at Fortuna, to replenish his ketches' Ether from the organic compounds found on the asteroid's surface." - The Maraid, Book VIII, Chapter 7_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas and the high barons observe the results of the Sack of Hygiea, and Variks observes them.

It wasn't a surprise to any of the pack that their plan to datamine 10 Hygiea went off without a hitch. What did surprise them was the sheer amount of data they obtained.

The entire operation went flawlessly. A detachment of the Wolf fleet diverted the Awoken's attention, attacking a Reef military installation of enough tactical significance so as not to raise their suspicions.

Meanwhile, the Fang slipped into the station like a shadow, undetected. 10 Hygeia was not prepared for the stealth attack: the aliens had amped up their web defenses in the aftermath of Amethyst, but their servitors unraveled them like they were little more than a cable twist-tie.

There was only the minor hump of getting the ground crew through the dock, and then... they took every scrap of data they could find and then some. The entirety of the digital library uploaded to the Fang's high servitor in less than two hours. Like that, they were gone, without a trace of having ever been there.

Skolas watches the livestream as Kaliks Major catalogs the data, the servitor flagging interesting items and pushing them to the fore. He glances up at the rest of his barons as they wait: Pirsis in particular, the shadows cast by the screens deepening the lines of her frown. He turns to Variks, the Scribe standing neatly off to the side.

\--

Variks has honed his composure over many years. It takes every ounce of that practice to keep a smug smile from gracing his face.

It’s been so _long_ since he was able to give counsel. And what an impressive success this is, too. With the contents of this library, their knowledge of the enemy will increase twelvefold. A strategic advantage indeed, and one not garnered by indiscriminate sacking.

Out of the corner of his eye, Variks sees Pirsis following Skolas’s gaze to himself, and a prickle runs down his spine as a scowl creases her face. The baroness had not been happy when Skolas had asked Baron Beltrik about the potential of a stealth raid instead of a more typical raze. (Though watching the head strategist light up like a prime’s ether stream had been amusing.)

Oh, Variks can guess very well what Pirsis’s strategic position is. It’d be the view of any seasoned, conservative member of the Wolves nobility; since they have technical and martial superiority over the aliens, it’s of the utmost importance to signal propensity for total destruction so as to reduce the enemy’s morale and signal to the underlings of the House that this new reign is a powerful one. And so on and so forth. But confidence alone will not win a war.

Variks glances over at Baroness Drevis at the same time that Pirsis does. And how is the founder of the House’s foremost assassin gang reacting to all this?

\--

Drevis is as unreadable as ever. Pushing off of her seat, the baroness rises to her feet, cape brushing against her armrests.

"<We have the coordinates to all of their major outposts,>" she announces, flicking the relevant data out of the stream and onto the main presentation platform. "<Along with population counts, resources, and technology for each.>"

"<Excellent work, my barons.>" An incline of Skolas’s head, first to her and then to Beltrik. "<This will set the groundwork for any further confrontations. The path to the united House's future.>"

\--

Pirsis grunts in response.

Hm. Variks watches the barons shift and glance at one other and reconsiders his strategy. Managing the barons will likely be as much of a problem as managing Skolas.

Beltrik nods back to his kell then stares at the screen thoughtfully. “<The aliens will be thoroughly off-balance when our next moves are far more targeted for no evident reason,>” he muses.

\--

"<Here is a particularly interesting bit of intel,>" Drevis says, perfectly serene, pretending that Skolas's words had made an ounce of sense coming from his mouth. "<Data on the Watchtower at the edge of the Tangled Shores. Apparently, it is a gateway to their homelands.>"

"<Their homelands?>" Skolas asks, folding his hands atop the table.

\--

“<This is not their homeland?>” Pirsis demands, sitting up straighter. “<This is the home system of their kind, is it not?>”

Variks’s response is a slight tilt of his head. These Reef aliens are indeed different from those found on Earth.

\--

"<It's...>" Drevis makes a gesture. "<Complicated.>"

"<Their origins seem to be more than a bit convoluted,>" Beltrik notes, sliding up the relevant texts onto the table. "<The Watchtower is the gateway to their homelands. Their origins are from elsewhere, however. And they are...somehow linked to this system.>"

By all accounts, it doesn't make sense.

"<If this homeland is what the data suggests, then it might well be the source of their powers,>" Skolas speculates. "<And if we can understand that, then perhaps it will be the key to ending them.>"

\--

Pirsis settles back, eyes gleaming. "<Anything on the Harbingers?>" She asks. "<With those neutralized, we could gather in force again.>"

Beltrik makes a face at the search queries. "<Much of this isn't fully translated yet,>" he says. "<But surely there will be something.>”

Or, Variks thinks, it is something secret enough to keep out of libraries. Which seems likely for a superweapon.

\--

"<I don't think it likely that the Awoken would keep that kind of information in a public data hub,>" Drevis points out, unintentionally voicing Variks's thoughts. "<But it will be a good starting point.>” 

“<Perhaps an explanation for the Scatter pried from their very own eyes,>" Skolas intones. "<And perhaps that will help us understand their goals, the better to predict how they will act.>"

\--

Pirsis regards Skolas with an expression of bemusement.

"<...Yes,>" Beltrik says, nodding slowly, perhaps for longer than is appropriate. If Variks had to guess, Beltrik wasn’t expecting Skolas to have this response to kellship. Frankly, neither was Variks.

\--

"<Yes,>" Drevis echoes, completely and utterly calm. "<We have an extensive amount of investigation to do, of course, before we can confirm anything.>"

"<I will,>" Skolas says, just the barest hint of awkwardness in his tones, "<Leave the matter in your capable hands, then, my barons. Until Kaliks Major has cataloged everything and further analysis is done, this meeting is adjourned. See to your duties.>"

\--

Oh, gracious, Variks thinks. Where did that awkwardness come from? Concerning.

Beltrik rises and curtseys to Skolas, followed shortly by Pirsis, who radiates confused suspicion.

\--

Drevis, fortunately, is there to usher Pirsis out before the baroness can decide to stay. Giving Skolas a quick bow, she and Pirsis slip out of the door, Beltrik trailing in their wake.

Skolas almost relaxes in the ensuing silence.

Almost.

Turning, he peers at Variks, a peculiarly conflicted air hanging over him.

That turned out surprisingly well. Perhaps.

"<Was this what you'd imagined?>" he asks with a hint of bemusement.

\--

Variks takes a moment longer to respond than is his norm, still unused to being addressed instead of ignored. Interesting, that Skolas continues to acknowledge him.

“<The raid, or the ensuing discussion, my kell?>” Variks says, tone carefully bland.

\--

Skolas can imagine the frantic speculation going on over encrypted channels right now between his barons. He stifles the urge to press his palm to his face, rising from his-increasingly ill-fitting-seat instead.

The problem is that it worked, really. The problem is that Skolas would not have listened to Beltrik at all if it weren't for this shunned Judgment Scribe. The problem is that 10 Hygiea is still standing, the Awoken none the wiser to their near brush with destruction.

"<Both,>" Skolas answers, pushing his chair back into place.

\--

Variks watches the kell behind his neutral expression. Frankly, he isn’t sure what he expected. But it wasn’t Skolas speaking as though this specific stratagem is his new aim, and not an exception.

“<The plan was a resounding success,>” He says. “<And Baron Beltrik’s observation of the psychological impact upon the aliens was insightful.>”

\--

Not what he'd asked, but Skolas is off-balance enough that he doesn't bother making a point of restating. He takes a moment to run through the size adjustments for his chair, trying to sort his thoughts out.

Why? Why did he give Variks a chance to influence his thoughts like this at all?

(Is it truly such a bad thing? It must be, if Virixas had never deigned to acknowledge the Scribe before.)

But both instances of listening to Variks had turned out... positively.

"<We've some of the Awoken's secrets, now,>" he says, finishing with the chair and straightening. "<Thanks to him. And to you.>"

\--

Two weeks ago, Variks would have said that acknowledgment from his kell would be the thing he wanted most. Now, he's just wary. And uncomfortable.

He bows slightly. “<You honor me, my kell.>”

\--

"<We are,>" Skolas continues, "<still waiting to see if this strategy will bear fruit.>"

"<In the meantime, the Awoken have breathing space to develop new weapons. Or to find new ways to conjure up nightmares from the dark.>" Tucking the chair under the meeting table, Skolas turns to regard Variks fully. "<And we have let them keep their library: an asset that they can still use.>"

\--

“<Surely they are not so primitive as to lack data redundancy, my kell,>” Variks says reasonably, tucking away the flicker of fear. Skolas isn’t even at full height yet, but it doesn’t much matter to the anxious back of Variks’s brain, not when the kell has such a reputation. “<The destruction of a repository would be more of a symbolic gesture. Useful, but less valuable than their ignorance of our level of intel.>”

\--

Skolas leans against the table, two hands pressed against the edge and two folded against his chest, quietly contemplating Variks.

"<I will hear your counsel,>" he says carefully. "<And I will order Pirsis off your back. I do not know what you did to make Virixas shun House Judgment, but your words have thus far been sound.>"

_Do not betray my trust_, is the unspoken threat underneath.

\--

‘What _Variks_ did?’ is Variks’s first, outraged thought. Variks did nothing but trust an honorless house, walking back into the den of those who had wronged his own.

But Skolas doesn’t care about any of that, of course. Anything but sycophantic devotion to Virixas would be fair grounds for disgrace in Skolas’s view.

Countenance utterly smooth, Variks bows again. “<Thank you, my kell.>”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Fun facts: in real life, 10 Hygiea is a main-belt asteroid that is the fourth-biggest asteroid in the belt, technically classified as a dwarf planet, and has a nearly spherical shape! In Destiny 1, Hygiea is the location of the biggest libraries of the Reef (possibly excluding those in the Dreaming City?), and was a target of the Wolves united under Skolas after the Battle of Iris.  
  
  
_"The Reef Cryptarchy's Hygiea Division is its largest, with over half of the asteroid devoted to their sprawling libraries." - Hygiea Noblesse, primary weapon_  
  
_Gone to Ground - bounty_  
_Check with Variks in the Reef for any new intel on Skolas._  
_"After the Battle of Iris, the united Wolves struck at Hygiea and sacked its libraries. The Reef Wars had begun." —The Maraid_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drevis and Pirsis discuss Skolas's recent disposition.

The starscape spins slowly by as Drevis peers out at Neptune, 1162 Larissa drifting past in the window simulated from the ketch's external feed. Her arms are loosely folded, and she is dressed only in her undersuit, the clasps along her neck still unfastened, revealing the dark, scarred skin beneath.

It has been a long few weeks since they'd felled Parixas. A long and _quiet_ few weeks. Oh, they have been busy, of course - the Fang always were - and Drevis was thus also occupied. There were Reef outposts to scout, repairs to do - endless, ever-endless repairs - the wellbeing of the remaining Wolves to oversee, and resources to gather.

But, aside from a few skirmishes with the Reef, things have otherwise been... quiet.

And in quiet, there is restlessness.

\--

Weighty, padding footsteps behind Drevis are a prelude to broad arms wrapping around Drevis’s shoulders. Pirsis’s own undersuit is open to the waist, her bare chest pressing against Drevis’s back as she stares, brooding, out of the window over Drevis’s shoulder.

\--

Pirsis is warm, and Drevis closes her eyes as the heat of that solid, comfortable frame seeps through her suit. Lets herself sink into the welcome embrace.

"<Dear love,>" she murmurs, turning to rest her forehead against Pirsis's, her hand rising up to touch her packmate's cheek. "<I can feel the weight of your thoughts. Share them with me?>"

Oh, she can guess what troubles Pirsis. But better to hear it from her directly and let her purge it from her system now.

\--

Pirsis sighs, her breath a gust of warm air that turns into a hoarse growl at the end. “<Surely you notice it too,>” she says, tilting her head into Drevis’s touch. “<This is not what anyone would have expected of Skolas.>”

\--

"<No. No, it is not,>" Drevis agrees, letting her hand slide under the parted undersuit, trailing her knuckles over Pirsis's side. "<But... he is losing some of his temper. And he is putting more thought behind his words and actions. Is that not good?>"

\--

Pirsis shoots Drevis an unamused look, even as her eyes flutter at the lovely touch. “<That seems a side effect at _most_,>” Pirsis answers, “<Considering the result is a policy of effective _cowardice_.>”

\--

"<I'd be more inclined to agree,>" Drevis rumbles, slowly nuzzling Pirsis's cheek, "<If he weren't pushing more campaigns onto the Fangs than Virixas ever did. But perhaps I am overlooking something, hm?>"

\--

“<You’re very fetching,>” Pirsis informs her, distracted despite herself. She cups Drevis’s jaw and nuzzles her more firmly, savoring the feel of Drevis’s skin.

“<You know it’s not the same,>” she murmurs after a long minute. “<The rank and file wonder at the inactivity.>”

\--

"<They're quite occupied with the repairs and rebuilding, my love.>" And Drevis is tipping her head so very fetchingly, eyes glimmering. "<If anything, they're busier than ever.>"

\--

Pirsis sighs. “<Must you pick at all of my words? You get my meaning.>” Even so, she traces the edge of Drevis’s face, watching her hungrily.

\--

"<You pick at mine just fine,>" Drevis teases, turning fully to push another hand under Pirsis's suit. Still, she does sober a little, tracing along the seams between her packmate’s scarred plating.

"<You think he's being influenced?>"

\--

Pirsis’s face twitches as if about to scowl. “<It’s a definite possibility. Though it could be simple...nerves, I suppose.>”

\--

"<The mantle of kellship seems to be resting heavier on him than we'd predicted.>"

Ever since the campaigns ended, Skolas had changed: withdrawn more. Pushed harder into that aloofness. Initially, Drevis had assigned it to the grief finally taking hold and the hormonal and physical changes of his transition, but...

\--

Pirsis had assumed it was outside influence, but now that Drevis is commenting on it too... Skolas’s behavior _could_ be an attempt to emulate Virixas. Urgh.

“<How could we have predicted it?>” Pirsis grumbles. “<It’s all so...unexpected.>”

\--

"<He would carry the weight of the universe for this House,>" Drevis points out, tracing her thumb down Pirsis's center seam. "<A good trait for a kell, but he stands on shifting grounds.>"

\--

“<He would,>” Pirsis whispers, resting her forehead heavily against Drevis’s. “<And that is why we must be vigilant to changes such as this.>”

\--

"<Speak to him, hm?>" Drevis says, curling her secondary arms around Pirsis. "<He could use your support now more than ever.>"

\--

“<It is no time to doubt our kell,>” Pirsis counters regretfully, leaning into the embrace.

\--

"<He's not done anything completely disastrous.>" A warm note under the quiet humor. In fact, quite the opposite.

\--

“<Mm,>” Pirsis says, “<He was not as stern with Peekis as perhaps he could have been, but he did not shy away from punishing a former packmate. And there haven’t been consequences to this new direction...yet.>”

And therein lies the rub. Over-caution rarely ever shows its failings in the moment.

\--

"<What consequences do you foresee?>" Drevis murmurs into the crook of Pirsis's neck, her eyes sliding shut as she slowly slides her mask over the exposed skin.

\--

“<Come now,>” Pirsis says, voice turning throaty under the slow nuzzle, “<You know very well the dangers of being too sparing with shows of force. One invites impertinence, _challenge_, and that is merely within one’s own House.>”

\--

"<_Impertinence_, mm?>" There's just the barest note of mischief in Drevis's voice. Her upper arms reach up to tug Pirsis's suit off of her shoulders so that she can slide her mask along her packmate's collarbone.

\--

“<Hhhn.>” Oh, that is _highly_ distracting. Pirsis lets the suit fall to her waist, slides a firm upper hand around Drevis’s nape. “<Yes. Impertinence. It is the nature of strength to be tested. These aliens were bold enough to attack once, and _win_. Battles are won through the threat of force more often than force itself; if we do not establish ourselves as a formidable foe, we will be forced into battle. This is the way of things.>”

\--

"<There is joy, too, in cutting the throat out of a foe who's grown complacent,>" Drevis purrs, breath hitching at the heavy hand on her nape. She follows the jut of Pirsis's hip, greedily smooths her hand over the dark expanse of her lover's broad chest, gently nudging her towards the nest. "<To shore your strength, gather your resources, to bide your time and wait for the _perfect_... shot.>"

\--

Pirsis’s expression wavers between heavy-lidded arousal and annoyance. “<Not ->” she says, voice rumbling, “<Not if they take off your head whilst you’re busy trying to get _artistic_.>”

\--

"<Mmm, how about...>" Voice dripping with lust, Drevis curls her hand over the curve of Pirsis's rear. "<...We make a wager?>"

\--

Pirsis wraps her arm around Drevis’s waist, squeezes her nape, and stares her directly in the eyes. “<No.>”

\--

The solid hold sends a thrill through Drevis, her eyes fluttering. She lets herself have a moment to just relish it, the powerful arms, the callused hand on her neck.

"<It'll be a fun one,>" she promises breathily, pushing her hips against Pirsis's in blatant temptation.

\--

“<I know better than to take any of your bets, you wily little thing,>” Pirsis purrs, pulling Drevis properly onto her lap. Oh, Drevis is _very_ tempting. Pirsis cups another hand on her face, traces underneath those fetchingly fluttering eyes.

\--

"<Now what have I ever done to earn such distrust?>" Drevis asks, turning to press slow nuzzles into Pirsis's palm, comfortably folding her legs on either side of the other baron's hips.

\--

“<In order of decreasing deviousness, or chronologically?>” Pirsis chuckles, gaze turning molten. Her hand splays on the small of Drevis’s back, prompting her to grind on her hips.

\--

"<I have never,>" Drevis says, utterly wounded as she reaches up and curls her fingers around Pirsis's, eyes gleaming from under her chitinous brows, "<Done anything devious in my life.>"

She's arching under Pirsis's hand then, lightly raking her fingers down Pirsis's chest, over her ribs, the flat of her belly.

\--

“<You’ve made deviousness into a career,>” Pirsis purrs, fingers curling around Drevis’s in return. “<Quite a... _lucrative_ one, at that.>”

Heat blooms from the path of Drevis’s claws, making Pirsis pull her in even closer, hard hands on her back and nape. “<Very fetching of you,>” Pirsis whispers.

\--

"<Oh, then I retract everything that I've said,>" Drevis laughs softly, tipping her head back with a sigh at the solid warmth of Pirsis between her legs, grinding just a little harder. "<I have been nothing _but_ devious.>"

\--

“<Just as I thought,>” Pirsis rumbles, stroking the small of Drevis’s back. She kneads the thick, corded muscles of Drevis’s neck, callused fingers working over her nape. “<You yield so attractively, too.>”

The irritation of their argument has long melted away in the heat of Drevis’s lovely little grind, and Pirsis shifts backward to lean more comfortably against the edge of the nest, grinning knowingly at her lover.

\--

Drevis's eyes brighten with a hungry little smile, working the clasps of her undersuit open and slowly peeling the fabric off, revealing to Pirsis bare skin and plating.

"<Only for you, my dear Pirsis,>" she rumbles, rocking her hips with a sharp, hot little sigh. "<Oh, only ever for you.>"

\--

Dominating subordinates, overcoming their lesser wills to serve her desires always holds appeal for Pirsis. But there is something especially delightful about having an equal to her strength and prowess submit willingly to her, and her alone.

Pirsis’s eyes gleam as she pushes into that sweet grind, thumb moving to stroke at the seam of Drevis’s hip. “<Come now, my dear,>” she coaxes, eyes lit with hunger. “<Let me _reward _you.>”

* * *

"<Mmmm.>"

Larissa is long gone by the time they’re done.

Drevis is purring, soaking in the heat of Pirsis's body, draped luxuriously across that solid chest. Head pressed against Pirsis's collar bone, she listens as her packmate's pulse steadies, breath evening slowly out.

"<Well,>" she murmurs. "<I'm feeling quite thoroughly rewarded.>"

\--

“<Excellent,>” Pirsis rumbles smugly. Her heavy arms are draped over the nest, one hand resting on the back of Drevis’s neck. What pleasant exertion.

Something nudges at her mind as she idly runs her fingers along Drevis’s nape. “<What _were_ you going to wager?>”

\--

"<Oh, are we curious now?>" Drevis teases, lazily twining their fingers together.

\--

“<Of course we are,>” Pirsis says. “<Your cunning is quite fetching, you know.>”

\--

"<And you were so adamant about not hearing me out.>" Chittering, Drevis slowly nuzzles Pirsis's neck.

\--

“<Now,>” Pirsis says, a purr underlining her voice, “<I just said I wouldn’t _take_ the wager.>”

\--

"<Where's the fun in that?>" It would almost be petulant if Drevis weren't thrumming so languidly, tracing patterns over Pirsis's shoulder.

\--

Pirsis puffs, jostling Drevis gently. “<Tease,>” she accuses.

\--

"<Someone has to keep you in shape,>" Drevis says, chuckling, wholly undeterred in her mission to nuzzle every inch of Pirsis's neck.

\--

Pirsis tsks but subsides. If Drevis wishes to be cagey, that is her prerogative.

\--

"<If,>" Drevis says, and she might be pouting just a little bit at the fact that Pirsis dropped the game so quickly. "<Skolas's strategy works out...>"

Still, the pout turns into a sly little smile.

"<...You do my paperwork for a year.>"

\--

“<Absolutely not,>” Pirsis says instantly. “<_Your_ intelligence reports? No thank you.>”

\--

"<If it turns out that it doesn't work,>" Drevis continues, seductively trailing her finger along Pirsis's jawline. "<You can do whatever you want to me. Mm?>"

\--

“<...>” Pirsis squints down at Drevis. “<...Anything,>” she repeats thoughtfully. A tempting thought.

\--

"<Even making me do _your_ paperwork,>" Drevis offers mildly.

\--

Pirsis clicks. “<You persist in trivializing all aspects of your life,>” she scolds, though her tone isn’t particularly stern.

\--

"<It's just how I deal with the ever-looming specter of death,>" Drevis says cheerily.

\--

“<You ought to have more confidence.>” Pirsis settles against the nest. “<Are you going to keep bothering me about this?>”

\--

Resting her chin atop her hands, Drevis beams. "<I might.>"

\--

“<Of course.>” Pirsis can’t help smirking back. “<Very well. I shall begin planning my reward.>”

\--

"<I'm glad,>" And Drevis’s mask hides the teeth that come with her beatific smile. "<That we could reach an agreement, my dear.>"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Fun fact: why should eliksni have western human gender and relationship expectations? Instead, we have the headcanon that eliksni have a tri-gender system, loosely based off of the sequential hermaphroditism of clownfish/anemonefish (Amphiprioninae). To deal with the limited number of habitable anemones in a reef, multiple adult anemonefish will share an anemone in a strict dominance hierarchy. The biggest and most aggressive fish is the female, with the next-biggest fish being the male, who does most of the caretaking of the eggs. The rest of the anemonefish are nonbreeders which line up in size order for their chance to breed, because if the female dies, the male becomes the female, and the next biggest nonbreeder becomes the male (same thing if the male dies).
> 
> SO, if you look at the fact that the eliksni in-game kind of end up at three different sizes (dregs/vandals, captains/barons, kells), you end up with three genders! In our headcanon, before the Whirlwind, the average eliksni family group was one 1st gender eliksni ("kell"), one or maybe two 2nd gender eliksni ("captain"), and a few 3rd gender eliksni ("vandal"). Unlike anemonefish, eliksni have an internal sense of gender, and many eliksni preferred not to transition to 2nd or 1st genders even when given the opportunity. Obviously, definitions of sex/gender and normative relationships varied widely both between and within cultures.
> 
> With the assertion of martial law post-Whirlwind and the unprecedented social control possible with entire populations confined to space ships, gender was subsumed into military rank as kells sought to obtain total control over the means of reproduction.
> 
> In the Houses, intra-rank/gender relationships are the most common simply for logistical reasons: you spend the most time and have the most emotional rapport with someone the same rank as you. However, the only relationships considered really "committed" are ones where a person of a higher rank makes a claim on a person of a lower rank - a kell on a baron, a baron on a captain, a captain on a vandal, so on and so forth, though functionally no one's going to interfere with a relationship between barons. Polygamy/having multiple pair-bonds is the default, particularly in the upper ranks, both through natural inclination and because the Houses are way, way too inbred for monogamous sexual relationships. Hot tip, don't make like a naked mole-rat and reduce your breeding population to a handful, it's a really bad idea. Someone should tell Skolas!
> 
> EDIT EDIT: who wants to see [what happened behind the fade to black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904533/chapters/54746644)? :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolves find Ahamkara bones on a Reef outpost.

It starts with a shattered skiff.

It starts with several wrecked Reef Galliots.

It starts, and it escalates, little by little.

The tattered Wolves scatter and reform and the Reef slips back into the dark between the asteroids. It's a continuous trickle of firefights and precision strikes guided by the deciphered intel from 10 Hygiea.

Little by little, they gather Awoken tech, and the splicers turn each piece inside out: weapons, ships, relics, more intel. They steal the alien corpses and dissect them, the servitors running simulation after simulation on how best to incapacitate or kill them. They learn of the tricks and secrets that the Techeuns use, how to circumvent them, how to avoid them entirely. 

From aboard the Kaliks-Fel, Skolas watches it all, grim with patience. In his court, upon his throne, he appoints new barons from amongst the high captains: Skriviks the Sharp-Eyed, Sekiks the Cunning, a handful of other worthy candidates. He sends Grayor and the Fangs out further to seek the dark places and scent out the secrets of their enemies.

And today, he watches Pirsis kneeling before him in a court much smaller than Virixas’s had been, presenting to him a skull held in stasis in a tube of silver: many toothed, many-eyed, a hologram of it shimmering in the air.

\--

A wish-dragon skull. An entire, intact skull. This should not be, Variks thinks, thoughts blurred with dread.

“<My kell,>” Pirsis says, tone grim. “<We believe this is a wish-creature’s skull. It was found in one of the evacuated alien settlements.>”

\--

"<The Awoken keep their remains?>" Skolas asks, eyes narrowed and wary. "<To what end?>"

As far as they knew, the ghouls had eliminated nearly all traces of the wish-dragons, bones and all. The fact that the Awoken would have such remains, and one so intact is... alarming.

\--

“<The niche it was found in was set apart from the rest of the architecture, possibly in the manner of a shrine,>” Pirsis recites, plainly repeating the analysis of some priest.

Bad. Very bad. The whispering of bones brought nothing but ruin upon most wishers - and yet Variks cannot think of a single hint of wish-related disaster in their Awoken intel. If the aliens have an accord with these creatures...

\--

The court shifts, nervous whispers passing between the nobles, and Skolas carefully doesn't react beyond leaning back into his seat, claws curling over the armrests.

There had been hints of a connection between the Reef and the wish-dragons in the data from 10 Hygiea. Seeing evidence of it sitting physically before him is far more chilling.

The more they learn of the creatures that caused the Scatter, the more concerning the findings become. The beings who would summon Harbingers now, too, seem to commune with one of the most dangerous things to ever grace the light of the known universe.

"<Are these the only remains found?>" Skolas questions, willing the bristles on his neck to smooth.

\--

"<The only ones in that settlement,>" Pirsis says, voice grim. "<But the context in which it was found suggests it was a stroke of luck that the scouts bested its concealment. It could be that there are more of these remains elsewhere. We are scouring the records for information on these local wish-creatures before we break quarantine around the area where it was discovered to investigate further.>"

Troubling. Troubling indeed. Variks's fingers shift on his staff, tapping silently up and down.

\--

"<Take all the silver you need from our stores to contain the bones. Go forth and ensure every bone is accounted for,>" Skolas declares. Then, turning to address the rest of the court of Wolves, he adds, "<That such artifacts can be found in a lowly settlement means we must change how we approach every place the Awoken have set foot in.>"

"<I will task Archon Aksor and his priests and splicers with the matter of developing a formal procedure for dealing with these curses. Until the procedure is appropriately tested, my nobles, be wary. Our enemies deal with twisted wishes and any missteps on our part will not end kindly.>"

\--

Pirsis curtseys deeply, and the rest of the court follows, a wave of obeisance rippling through the crowd.

Variks bows in concert, mind racing through the implications.

"<We will hunt them, my kell,>" Pirsis says, still half-knelt in respect. "<We will drive their blasphemous witchcraft from this Belt.>"

The scribe’s sigh is entirely internal. There she goes again.

\--

"<Your fortitude and determination are an inspiration to us all, my baroness,>" Skolas says, rising from his throne. "<We will see them driven to a suitably pitiable extinction. But for now, caution above all else: we cannot lose more Wolves to these horrors than we already have.>"

Drawing himself up to his full height, he sweeps his gaze over the court before letting it fall back upon Pirsis.

"<The court is concluded. Attend to your duties, my nobles.>"

\--

Pirsis smiles under her helm and drops back into her deep curtsey before sweeping from the room.

Variks's lower hands twitch nervously. Surely Pirsis cannot mean that they should instigate more attacks against these increasingly threatening aliens?

\--

As the rest of the nobles file out -- or transmat away or flicker out from their holographic platforms -- Skolas steps down from the dais and makes his way to the private exit behind the throne. As he sweeps across the threshold, the massive doors sliding apart for him, he adjusts his increasingly ill-fitting gloves, thoughts racing through his mind.

There is much for him to consider.

\--

Variks silently trails his kell through the exit to the private hallway, his own thoughts racing.

Many ill-tidings this day. Most obviously that of the wish-creatures, but also concerning were the implications of what Pirsis had said.

\--

"<I have heard stories of the bones before,>" Skolas says conversationally, glancing back and down at Variks. "<Never thought I would ever be in the presence of one, let alone an entire skull. Why would the Awoken keep such things enshrined?>"

\--

It's still a novelty, to be addressed by Skolas.

"<The greatest danger of the wish-creatures,>" Variks says, looking up at Skolas, "<Is always said to be their cunning. They feed off of the desires of weaker beings and influence their minds in so doing. These Awoken could be prey to the wish-dragons...>"

Variks trails off. "<A more troubling possibility would be that of an alliance between the two. A theoretical symbiosis.>"

\--

"<Symbiosis?>"

Skolas stops in the middle of adjusting his mantle and frowns quietly. How would symbiosis work with a creature that can only ever grant harm? Surely they are simply parasites? Or is there another aspect to them that he has yet to have heard of?

\--

"<The records are less complete than I would like,>" Variks cautions. "<Our ancestors shunned these beings for good reason. But it is incontrovertible that they wield great power, and feed off of the desires of sapient beings.>"

Variks's hands tighten on his staff. "<What if these aliens have a way to feed the creatures and harvest their wishing-powers without falling prey to their hungers? It would explain how they have achieved impossibilities.>" Like the Harbingers. Like their improbable stealth.

\--

"<...>"

It feels like another gap in the puzzle, somehow. The Reef's connection to the ghouls’ City, the dearth of a solid motivation for their attack. If the Awoken truly wield such a symbiosis, why would they bother miring themselves in the conflict between the eliksni and the City? They certainly didn't have any tangible alliance with them as far as they’ve discovered.

Why? Why any of this?

He stands at the helm of one of their few surviving Wolfships, only halfway into kellhood, and still holds no answers within his grasp. It feels like the future is precariously balanced atop a pin hanging within a web of mysteries.

"<If that is true,>" he says, carefully loosening his fingers from their tight curl. "<Then we have all the more reason to find a way to end them.>"

\--

“<...Yes,>” Variks says, slowly. “<And all the more reason not to be… hasty.>”

\--

"<We are hardly being hasty,>" Skolas mutters. "<If anything we are nearly crawling, slow as we are going. And now, even slower, checking every step and corner for a trap.>"

He finally gives up and peels his gloves off, making a mental note to requisition replacements.

\--

“<A crawl compared to what?>” Variks mutters, watching Skolas peel off his too-small gloves.

\--

Skolas slows to a stop, willing the prickling edge of his temper down.

"<Would you prefer us to do nothing while the Reef whittles us away little by little?>"

\--

The hairs rise on the back of Variks's neck. Bad. Bad move. Variks should not be comfortable with Skolas. "<Of course not, my kell,>" he says smoothly. "<But not all strategies are equal, yes?>"

It had taken some work a few weeks back merely to counsel Skolas against Drevis's proposal to raid the Ghouls' City, to seek intel on the connection between them and the Reef. A high-risk, unpredictable target, for uncertain gains: foolishness. Variks must tread lightly if he is to avoid Skolas's temper while continuing to advise him. Only the foolish would openly criticize the kell's inner circle, and Variks is skirting dangerously close to doing so.

\--

"<Tell me then,>" Skolas, says, folding his arms against his back. "<What you think the superior strategy would be here.>"

\--

Oh, dear. “<I cannot rival the wisdom of your combined pack,>” Variks says, grasping for the first placating phrase he can think of, “<I merely note that the measured approach has been quite fruitful, yes?>”

\--

There's fire in the back of his throat, but Skolas lets it simmer and subside, slows his breath.

"<Answer,>" he says slowly, "<the question.>"

\--

"<We don't know the nature of the arrangement between the wishing-beasts and the Reef aliens, if there is one at all>" Variks says, heart pounding. "<It could be that their powers are costly to the Awoken. Surely it is wise to avoid pushing them too quickly, too harshly, to… desperate measures? Attrition is a reliable tactic, my kell.>"

\--

Slowly, Skolas presses the heel of his palm against his face, wills the lingering sparks of poorly coiled fury to die down.

"<We are already doing little to nothing as it is,>" Skolas snaps, frustration wired through his words despite himself. "<How much less can we do? I've already ordered the Wolves to avoid attacking these… ‘civilian’ populations. We've already switched to prioritizing stealth tactics. Every battle that has occurred has either been a distraction or initiated on the Reef's part.>"

\--

"<I would not call that 'little', my kell,>" Variks ventures. "<While some of your barons may be… eager to unleash the full might of the Wolves, surely you have seen the other ones shine?>"

\--

There's something about those words that don't feel entirely right, but Skolas's temper is being smothered, and he can't find the spare mind to really squint at it.

"<Drevis and Beltrik have been executing feats I never thought possible,>" he says, softly.

\--

Variks nods, relieved. “<Their prowess is unmatched,>” he agrees.

\--

"<I only hope my over-caution won't cost the Wolves later.>"

Skolas sets his shoulders and pushes himself to start walking again. There is much to do still, and he can't dawdle.

\--

"<Perhaps, but it is highly unlikely, my kell,>" Variks assures him. "<Where would the House be if everyone tore off at the first sign of provocation? Falling into traps, quite likely.>"

\--

"<Such quick reaction can also save lives,>" Skolas points out. "<Smother the threat at its inception, or show the enemy that we are not afraid to strike them in return. Make them second-guess and doubt, shake their morale.>"

\--

"<Reasoned responsiveness,>" Variks can't help pointing out. "<There is a difference between being quick to punish a foolish move on the enemy's part, and being foolish oneself, my kell.>"

\--

"<I know the consequences very well, scribe,>" Skolas says with the barest hint of amusement. "<Or did you happen to forget my epithet?>"

\--

"<...>" What is Variks meant to say to such a disarming comment? "<I suppose so, my kell.>"

Skolas is becoming more of a puzzle than Variks had anticipated. But there is nothing else to do besides wait and watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! A question for you all; we reference a lot of relatively obscure lore in this fic, so would you guys like for us to put some lore trivia in the author's notes? Let us know!
> 
> EDIT: Fun fact: in canon, during the Reef Wars, the Silent Fangs attacked the City! In this AU, Skolas decided against it.
> 
> _Mission: The Silent Fang, from House of Wolves: "Stop Skolas's elite assassins before they tear through the Cosmodrome. Complete mission "Silent Fang.""_  
_"The Silent Fang? Yes. Yes, I remember them. The Fang made a number of attacks against the City during the days of the Reef Wars. They'd take to terror tactics, slipping invisibly through with cargo and going on a rampage in a crowded residential area." —Zavala_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirsis gets aggressive. The anniversary of the Scatter approaches.

Pirsis the Relentless lays siege to a Reef military outpost in retaliation for that heretical presence of wish-creature bones. Her Wolves tear through the Paladin ranks and cut down the Techeun presiding over the station on 704 Interamnia, shattering the alien witch's protective ward. Half the station implodes from the torn pieces of magic, taking a number of the Wolves with it.

The baroness's displeasure is only somewhat tempered by the data the Fang pull from the depths of the asteroid before the Wolves are forced to withdraw from the collapsing structure. Skolas watches her over the screens, suppressing a flicker of concern.

"<I did not know that the Techeuns were capable of such feats,>" he says, steepling his fingers together.

\--

“<How could we have known?>” Pirsis replies, scowling. “<These aliens delight in being cryptic.>”

Which is why Pirsis’s latest series of raids is a lousy idea, Variks thinks, schooling his face away from disapproving. What did they gain? A few paltry transmissions of caution that told them next to nothing that they did not already know.

\--

"<I suspect,>" Skolas intones. "<That we will begin to encounter these tactics more often the longer this war goes on. We will have to develop appropriate countermeasures.>"

They'd struck Interamnia to recover more Reef artifacts like the wish-dragon skull. Bones, magic trinkets, things that the splicers and servitors might be able to study and simulate.

The crumbling station holds no promise for such finds now.

\--

Pirsis's face twitches - likely frustration, Variks judges - but she bows her head in acknowledgment. "<My fleet is at your command, my kell.>"

What, is she planning to _beat_ the specifications of Techeun capabilities out of the aliens?

\--

"<See to your duties, my baroness,>" Skolas says, inclining his head in return.

\--

Pirsis’s face twitches again - understandable, Variks thinks, given that Skolas just side-stepped the matter - but she bows again at the clear dismissal, her demeanor respectful. The transmission ends.

Variks’s fingers tap near-silently on his staff. Hm.

\--

Would Virixas have tolerated such wastefulness? Skolas reflects in the following quiet, the uncomfortable weight of it settling under his diaphragm. He needs - to think.

Pushing onto his feet, Skolas steps away from his chair, quietly strangles the urge to begin pacing, and instead turns to regard Variks.

"<I will be hounded later,>" he says by way of conversation, keeping his tone carefully level despite the tension he feels. "<But for now, perhaps a break.>"

\--

Variks looks at Skolas carefully, before saying, “<Wise, my kell.>”

Such unexpected consideration. And such expected leniency towards Pirsis, unfortunately. She’s already taking more implicit leeway than Virixas would have granted her.

\--

The entry to the meeting room slides open, and Skolas stops in front of the parted doors, waiting for Variks before he realizes what he's doing. Vaguely irritated with himself, he keeps his gaze planted firmly forward.

"<The anniversary of the Scatter will be upon us soon,>" he says blandly. "<We have preparations to make.>"

\--

Variks is already following Skolas through the hallway by the time he realizes that Skolas had waited for him at the door. However, Skolas is already speaking, leaving him no time to puzzle over it.

“<What did you have in mind, my kell?>”

\--

"<Consecration. Prayers. The distribution of ether.>"

Peekis had proposed decoration once, back when he'd still been baron.

Only once.

"<The Wolves have never seen grief of the scale of the Scatter,>" Skolas continues, folding his secondary hands against his back as they walk. "<And I can't help but worry that whatever we try to organize will pale in comparison to it.>"

\--

Variks is silent for some time, staff tapping against the ground.

The scribe channels have been silent for weeks now, after the whispered messages of the danger of transmitting to his host House, after the hasty transmissions warning of Ghouls on the warpath. Even before that - scribe after scribe gone, whittled away by old age and illness and collateral damage.

“<Of course it will, my kell,>” Variks says before he fully processes what he’s saying. “<What can compare to such loss? Better to create a space for such grief than to try and match it.>”

\--

There is something about that quiet that draws Skolas's curiosity, even as he's careful not to show it. He should be wary of being curious about this scribe. Always wary.

(It is hard to be continually wary when you spend so much time with someone. Even with the knowledge that Variks was shunned, Skolas can't help wondering. What thoughts fill Variks's mind beneath that eternal calm?)

"<Best to keep the remembrance simple, then,>" he says, pulling away from his dwelling. "<Keep the House from dwelling for too long.>"

\--

Variks slants a sideways look at his kell, blank and even as always, but unable to wholly mask his reaction. Variks wonders: is Skolas speaking of the House, or of himself?

“<Perhaps, my kell,>” Variks says.

\--

Skolas turns his head to peer at Variks over the dark, shaggy mass of his mantle.

"<I am tempted to mark it as a day of rest,>" he continues. "<But I doubt we can afford such laxness when we are still warring with the Reef.>"

\--

It is truly a sad thing, Variks thinks, that his first response upon hearing his kell consider lenience is not approval but wariness. Especially with that intimidating gaze upon him.

"<Surely a slightly relaxed duty roster would not be too risky,>" Variks points out. "<And it would do a great deal for your current image.>"

\--

Skolas just barely manages to hold back an inelegant snort.

"<I will consult with Kaliks Major on the matter,>" he allows, taking a moment to readjust his gloves. They're getting tight again. The seams at the tips of the fingers are straining around his claws, and the fabric is webbing oddly between his digits.

"<See what their simulations might forecast.>"

\--

No god is omniscient but the Machine, Variks thinks. The utility of asking Kaliks Major about the wisdom of scheduling more off-shifts for the lower-ranked crew when they are undoubtedly calculating many other things seems...low. Variks makes a noncommittal noise, watching Skolas fiddle awkwardly with his gloves.

\--

It would be so much easier to simply forget.

Skolas glares at his glove as if the miserable thing were somehow the source of all his troubles. He swallows down the sudden irritation and peels each glove carefully off with more patience than he feels.

It would be easier to mire themselves in this war and to not think of it again. Not until they've won. Not until they've earned the right to let themselves feel grief, once they've honored every soul lost to the Scatter.

It's so miserably pointless now.

\--

Watching the overly careful way Skolas peels off the gloves, Variks dares more words. “<Of course, more extensive memorializing might convey to the House that the upper ranks remember what this war is being fought for.>”

\--

"<Extensive,>" Skolas makes himself echo as gruffly neutral as he can manage. The back of his neck bristles at the very idea of having to endure anything more elaborate.

\--

“<Larger scale,>” Variks says, trying not to stiffen at the tense undertone of Skolas’s voice. “<In addition to space for quiet contemplation, perhaps.>”

\--

"<What else would we do.>" And there is an oddly brittle note underneath it all. "<Besides more prayers and contemplation?>"

\--

That is not a good tone. “<Memorials of the lost?>” Variks says, willing his voice to stay even. “<Mourning song? You would know best, my kell.>”

\--

Skolas stops suddenly, his cape sweeping around his feet, carried on by momentum and the ketch's thin atmosphere. He presses his bare hand to his face before his mind catches up with the movement.

Damn.

Damn it.

Why is it so hard to keep his composure when he needs it the most?

\--

Skolas stops so abruptly that Variks ends up at his side instead of slightly behind him before he can stop himself.

Visible distress. Dangerous. Think. Think. "<Of course, my kell,>" Variks says, looking studiously down the empty hallway, "<It would be perfectly appropriate for your subordinates to determine the details.>"

\--

"<Scribe,>" he says, and there's an odd exhaustion to his voice where Skolas means it to be stern.

\--

“<Yes, my kell?>”

\--

Where was he going with this? Skolas lets his hand fall away, stubbornly ignoring the humiliation of allowing the Judgment scribe to see him crack like this. To see him crack at all.

"<We can discuss this later.>"

\--

“<Of course, my kell.>” Variks has the vague sense of having stepped out of the path of a speeding pike. He meanders back behind Skolas’s shoulder before the volatile bastard comments.

\--

"<...>"

It feels like he's spent the day dodging questions. Repressing the urge to sigh, Skolas begins walking once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not-so-fun-fact: While it's unclear whether the Wolves were "hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions strong" in number of soldiers (which is a lot of eliksni) or in number of ships (which is a whole hell of a lot of eliksni), either way, more than half of the House of Wolves perished in the Scatter. There's no mention of a division between civilian and military forces anywhere in the lore... which means that if the eliksni kids are anywhere, they're on the ships. The ships that Mara just blew up.  
  
Fun!  
  
  
_The Maraid, Book VII, Chapter 10_  
_"...But then the Wolves arrived from the Jovians. Their army was hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions strong: a dark wave that washed over the Reef, rushing toward the Earth..._  
_...Her Harbingers ripped into Ceres, destroying the asteroid and killing Virixas, Kell of Wolves and more than half his House."_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolves grieve the Scatter.

Skolas stands amidst the crowd of splicers as they dart to and fro around him, peering at them through the ether-white glow of the mourning veil hanging over his face. He dons a sash of the same air-light textile, the ends of the fabric wrapped once, ceremoniously around his neck, the two tasseled and beaded ends floating several inches away from the floor, perfectly symmetrical.

It feels… wasteful. Creating a set of attire to be worn only on a single day. It won't fit him a few months from now, and yet Aksor and his splicers are spending hours putting it together. The feeling doesn't do his growing irritability any good. Still, at least it's easier to focus on being calm when the room's only expectation of him is that he holds still.

The splicers themselves have donned their mourning garb. Skolas catches glimpses of white sashes here and there as they work around him, their little faces (and the faces around him are seeming increasingly small now) lit by flashes of transmat.

In the midst of it all, he feels Archon Aksor's gaze upon him, heavy as a loose bolt in a high-G maneuver.

\--

Variks watches from the edge of the room, hands folded around his staff. His own mourning garb had required some airing out to be presentable, but it's a lovely, well-made outfit of green-hemmed white, complete with undersuit, gloves, helmet, and veil. He'd nearly forgotten he had it.

Aksor's gaze is nearly palpable upon Skolas, and it makes Variks itch vicariously. He wonders what the archon is thinking of Skolas's unexpected wish to have the House stand on ceremony. Hopefully, nothing sinister; surely, Aksor would not be so foolish as to undermine the kell in the middle of a war after a bitter succession crisis?

"<We should be done soon, Kell Skolas,>" Aksor finally says, keen gaze still fixed on him. "<How is the fit?>"

\--

Raising his arm, Skolas tests his range of motion, listens for any creaking of too-tight fabric, any pinch of ill-fitted armor. There is nothing of either.

"<I can move,>" he concludes. It's more curt than he intended, but he finds his temper coiling underneath his words, and it takes everything to rein it back. Still, he adds, carefully, "<The fit is fine. Thank you, Archon Aksor.>"

\--

From long experience with eliksni of the Kings, Variks can see the impeccably well-concealed sneer that flashes over Archon Aksor's face. However, he's fairly sure it's just a response to the curtness.

"<Of course, Kell Skolas,>" Aksor says, nodding politely. "<We are always pleased to assist.>"

I'm sure you are, Aksor, Variks thinks sardonically.

\--

Skolas stops himself from adjusting his gloves out of habit, instead, inclining his head in a correct bow.

"<I am grateful, Archon Aksor.>"

The splicers are packing up their tools now, fabricators folding away, threads carefully spooled and stacked. He listens to them move and chatter quietly amongst themselves as he straightens once more, wills the ill-patience down.

"<Shall we make our way to the Prime's Chambers?>"

\--

Aksor nods with great gravitas, to which Variks wishes he had another scribe with him to share amusement at these oh-so-uptight nobles.

Ah, well.

The splicers cluster behind Aksor, which spares Variks the uncomfortable maneuvering required to keep an appropriate nearness to Skolas.

The Wolves have lacked a prime for some years now, but the Prime's Chambers are kept just as elegantly as ever: clean, spartan, with gleaming circles etched on all surfaces. A few archon priests are already present, dressed in white robes, as well as Kaliks Major, the great servitor glowing gently where they float. Variks bows along with the rest of the group as they enter.

\--

"<Mass communication relays: on standby,>" Kaliks Major announces, bathed in the holy light of ether, and the scene takes Skolas's breath away every time. There is always peace in the Prime's Chambers; a peace that chases the jagged edges of his simmering anger away, leaving clarity in its wake.

He rises from his bow and draws his shoulders back as he takes his place on the podium. For the first time, the veil doesn't feel like a hindrance: everything is made soft instead, the intended ethereal glow instead of a theft of his sight.

Skolas breathes and lets the tranquility flow through him, waiting for Aksor to step up to the podium to lead them in prayer.

\--

Variks places himself carefully to the side, not blatantly out of place but not intruding, either. He watches Archon Aksor ascend the dais into the pulpit after Skolas, elaborate white veils fluttering in his wake.

Aksor holds the silence for a few moments, looking over the minimal crowd of archon priests, plus a few lower priests and splicers currently in favor. Then Kaliks Major gives a massive _thrum_, and the communications relays come online.

"<The circle is unbroken,>" Aksor's voice rings out.

"<And we rise with it,>" Variks mouths in reply, echoed by the voices around him.

"<And yet, the circle was Scattered,>" Aksor continues, which is an unexpectedly direct opening. "<The Machine's people sundered, by strife and by calamity. Our gods defiled by nonexistence, our children barred from the cycle.>"

(Goodness. He's really driving it home, isn't he?)

"<A year can only serve to make us more aware of the empty spaces at our sides, in our skiffs and ketches. And yet.>" Aksor pauses. "<The circle is unbroken. The unending cycle moves ever on, each of us unknowing pieces of the Machine's design. Each empty space is an indelible part of the great, endless chain, carrying us ever forward unto our rightful place. Each link is a memory, a chain reaction of what came before. We move onwards, treading the great circle, spiraling ever closer to the Machine which guides us all.>"

Aksor bows his head and raises his arms. "<Let us pray.>"

\--

Skolas lets his voice meld with the rest as they rise together in prayer. The flow of the words comes to him as naturally as breath, taught to him since the moment he could speak. They pray for the prosperity of the House; they pray for the continuation of the circle.

They pray for the Great Machine's blessing, their god's eternal watch, Their eternal guidance. He imagines the thousands of other voices echoing their words: their dregs, their vandals, their captains, spanning the vast distance of the system's belt. All of them connected, even spread so thin and scattered so far.

For a single, glimmering moment, it's easy to forget the crushing weight of guilt, of grief. It's easy to forget the shattered wolfships, to forget Irxis and Parixas and the weight of their deaths, the many deaths that accompanied theirs.

It's easy to forget that Virixas is gone.

As the last of the words slip from them, Skolas realizes he's clasped his hands together hard enough to hurt. Realizes that his vision wasn't blurred only by the veil.

\--

Variks has said these words more times than he can count, in the presence of so many different servitors, so many different priests. So many different scribes. To distract himself from the absences at his own sides, Variks watches the small audience from the corners of his eyes.

There’s something about Skolas’s presence that is affecting the feel of the room, Variks decides. Something about his demeanor, the tension, it’s creating a different atmosphere than that of the numerous services Variks had attended spoken by Virixas and Fikrul, or Virixas and Aksor. None of the priests have the blank expressions of rote recitation; some stare raptly up at the dais, or at the major. A few, Variks can see, have their faces twisted up in a mostly fruitless attempt to stem the tears wisping from their eyes.

Variks will have to watch Skolas carefully. This is something he has not seen enough of.

“<We rise with the circle,>” Aksor finally says, after a moment of silence.

“<The circle is unbroken,>” replies the room.

\--

There is the scent of tears in the room, and Skolas is shamefully glad that he is not alone. He draws himself up once more as Aksor steps back, folding his hands together to hide the barely-there tremor running through them.

Drawing in a silent breath, he drags the pieces of himself together.

"<Beginning now and for the rest of our history as House Wolves, these two days will be forever marked as days of prayer. Days of remembrance. Days of rest.>" Somehow, his voice is steady, and Skolas thanks the Machine for the strength there that he doesn't feel. "<The Reef may have stolen from us our friends, our packmates, our compatriots. Our kell. But they cannot thieve from us our memories of them, of all those lost in the Scatter.>"

"<Should you have a memento of the lost you wish to be commemorated eternally, bring it to your servitors. Let it be engrammed and placed into the House's grand collective archives.>" Bowing his head, Skolas closes his eyes. "<Let them be remembered.>"

"<Be at peace, my Wolves. May the Great Machine bless us all.>"

\--

A ragged refrain of “<With the circle unbroken,>” ripples through the room, somewhat hindered by the damp-sounding voices.

Aksor bows, and the back-of-the-mind thrum of the communications relay turns off.

As the crowd starts to dissipate into quiet conversation, Aksor turns slightly to Skolas. “<Eloquent,>” he says.

\--

Skolas watches as Kaliks Major turns their eye towards the ceiling once more before refocusing his own attention onto Aksor.

"<And you as well,>" he says, courteously holding his arm out for Aksor to take before they descend from the podium. He has never been gladder for the piece of cloth covering his face than he is now.

\--

There’s a nearly imperceptible surprised hesitation, barely visible to Variks’s eyes, before Aksor takes his arm. “<Thank you.>”

All these little ill-fitting pieces, Variks thinks. A year ago, he would have laughed at the idea of Skolas having more depth than a puddle, but now….

Well. There’s time yet to observe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the best insights we have with regards to eliksni theology are from the slightly-garbled "Dormant SIVA: Fallen" fragments we get from the Rise of Iron: Wrath of the Machine raid! Although Aksis, the narrator, has been a little, uh, mentally scrambled by the SIVA, he explains a lot about _why_ the eliksni revere machines; namely, because machines, unlike organic life, can alter themselves in an instant to adapt, can become infinitely complex without the passing of eons. This implicitly links into the worship of the Traveler/Gardener/Great Machine, because the Traveler is the ultimate generator of complexity (as opposed to the Darkness/Winnower, who prefers the ultimate simplicity of "nothing but itself"). Of course, we can't know for sure whether the theology Aksis is positioning himself against is the orthodoxy of the Devils, or the eliksni in general, but we're just gonna assume it's common. I highly recommend reading all the fragments on Ishtar Collective!  
  
  
_Dormant SIVA: Fallen 3.2_  
_What is this complexity? ~consume enhance replicate~ The machine of a thousand parts, fashioned by single mind. From where does such complexity arise? What does the creation of a mind require? In the long march of life’s procession, order is created from disorder. The rise of complexity is not promised. Such things are not inevitable, and yet here I stand. ~consume enhance replicate~_  
_~SIVA.MEM.AK0619_  
  
_Dormant SIVA: Fallen 3.4_  
_~consume enhance replicate~ Life’s procession is written in the corpses of those who came before. But here the great chain breaks. Here we step forward, freed from that which has always bound us. Here we speak as gods. We are they who created themselves. ~consume enhance replicate~_  
_~SIVA.MEM.AK0621_  
  
_Dormant SIVA: Fallen 3.6_  
_~consume enhance replicate~ To build a species requires epochs. Countless pairings and dyings. Countless generations. The simplest creature requires geological spans of time to develop. But not machines. Machines are free from such constraints. It is not life that matters, but the building of complexity. ~consume enhance replicate~_  
_~SIVA.MEM.AK0623_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirsis attacks a Reef outpost. Variks makes a suggestion to Skolas. Skolas reacts very poorly.

Reef outposts are well-hidden things. Even with the knowledge gleaned from 10 Hygiea, the search for each is like looking for a pin in a box of a thousand screws. The ones with names and coordinates are too deep in the Reef, too well protected to outright attack. Others are named, but their coordinates are hidden. The Wolves scrape data from the outposts they find, piece by piece putting a map of the Reef together.

It is painstaking. It is slow.

Sometimes, however, the Wolves luck out.

Research Station 6 Hebe recoils like a startled crab under an upturned rock when Pirsis's Wolfship, the Orbiks-Fel, folds into the space near it. There's a brief moment of mutually shocked silence when the Wolves' scanners catch the tail end of their communications before the station could mute the lines completely.

And then all hell breaks loose.

The servitors jam all communications from the station. The Scorch teams tear through a bulkhead and plant transmat beacons into Hebe Station's guts, cutting down any Reef opposition and establishing a beachhead for the full assault. Within the hour, Techeun-Apprentice Nora Tunn and Station Captain Rema Mil are captured and executed. Research Division Head Jowita Symanska is captured and executed.

Pirsis's only regret is not being able to use the bodies of the Awoken for ether conversion. But they tear the station apart to nearly its bones before the Reef fleet arrives, and it's simple enough to drop what salvage wasn’t already strapped down and warp out with their spoils.

In the chaos of it all, the Wolves discover something... odd.

A bipedal machine folded away in a storage crate. The translation to the attached datapad reads:

_MODEL: 55-30_

_UNIT: 6-HEBE-2_

_NOTES:_

_The unit's been malfunctioning ever since we ran it through a hard reset two months ago. Colleen keeps finding the damn thing frozen in the middle of the hallway instead of cleaning anything. We've run through every form of repair we could think of, and we're at the end of our rope. Send this thing to Vesta and see what the techs over there think about it._

_\- Todd_

Pirsis finishes reading the note to the assembled nobles in Skolas's court, and what follows is a decidedly baffled and somewhat outraged silence.

"<The depth of Reef depravity never ceases to surprise me,>" Skolas remarks slowly, looking at the 'frame' accompanied by a Kaliks Minor floating at Pirsis's side. The machine has not been awakened, of course, partly due to security measures and partly because the splicers simply haven't figured out how to fix them just yet.

\--

“<These two-souled beasts are an affront to the very concept of civilization,>” Pirsis hisses, still visibly vibrating with rage. “<If we needed more proof that this extermination is divinely sanctioned, this would be the final piece.>”

Variks, meanwhile, is quietly standing to Skolas’s left, distracting himself by annotated the technician’s note, lest he find himself unable to mask his expressions appropriately. Must Pirsis always be so hawkish?

\--

"<You did well to lay waste to this outpost,>" Skolas praises, curling his fingers together and sitting back on his throne. "<You have brought your House direly-needed resources. You have overcome our enemies, and you have revealed the Reef's heathen disregard for all that is holy. You are truly the light of this House.>"

\--

Pirsis visibly blinks before pulling herself up even straighter. Variks doesn't think she meant to beam that brightly as she bows, either. “<My kell, you honor me.>”

\--

Skolas smiles in return, but he sobers up quickly afterward, rising from his throne.

"<I will leave the final fate of this 'frame' to the servitors and splicers,>" he announces, gesturing to the still body of the alien machine. "<Until a proper course of action has been established for dealing with future encounters with these machines -- or any other machines that the Awoken have so enslaved -- I bid you caution, my nobles, when attacking Reef settlements. We will not stoop to their barbarism. These machines will be treated with the respect that the Reef does not give them.>"

He sweeps his gaze over the faces in the court, some here in person and some attending projected in hologram.

"<May the Machine bless us with Their guidance. Attend to your duties, my nobles.>"

\--

The room bows in response, flesh and hologram all. Pirsis sweeps out of the room as the holograms begin to wink out, almost visibly glowing with pride _and_ rage now.

Only minutes later, a message appears in Skolas’s queue -- and therefore in Variks’s as well. A strategic proposal from Pirsis.

As Variks reads through the file, his brow furrows further and further down. No. Surely she would not be so _dense_ as to suggest that they uselessly expend _more_ resources.

\--

Skolas's brows furrow similarly, if not quite so deeply. He listens to the rest of the court transmat away or follow Pirsis's path into the hall, the murmur of their voices dying away until the court is entirely empty.

He marks the proposal for proper review later and dismisses his screens before turning to Variks.

"<Shall we?>" he says quietly, gesturing to the door.

\--

Variks nods on autopilot, still unaccustomed to Skolas’s consideration.

If Skolas does views him favorably, then perhaps… perhaps he can convince him away from Pirsis’s foolish proposal?

\--

"<I knew the Reef were indifferent to their machines at best,>" Skolas intones as the doors slide apart at his command. "<But I never imagined such travesty.>"

\--

“<It is a true abomination, my kell,>” Variks agrees. “<I would guess they are idolaters of the wicked things they used to Scatter the Wolves, instead.>”

\--

"<They put wish-dragon bones into shrines,>" Skolas says, tones dark. "<From what we have seen, there seems to be no end to their depravity.>"

\--

“<Indeed not, my kell,>” Variks steels himself. “<We should be careful not to let such atrocities blind us.>”

\--

"<Yes.>" Curious at the turn in the conversation, Skolas peers at Variks, slowing slightly. "<We will be careful.>"

Blind to what, exactly, he wonders?

\--

Variks slows to match Skolas, returning his gaze evenly. Is Skolas getting his subtext? Variks _saw_ him looking at Pirsis's proposal.

\--

"<We cannot leave them unaddressed, however,>" Skolas continues, bemusement lining his voice at Variks’s silence.

\--

"<Of course not, my kell,>" Variks says, feeling each word in his mouth before he lets it out. "<Still, haste brings wasteful action, yes?>"

\--

Skolas suspects that Variks has a particular point to make. Not knowing why he's circling around the matter rather than stating it outright is beginning to grate, however.

"<We will not be hasty,>" he offers. "<Or wasteful.>"

\--

“<Justly so, my kell,>” Variks says, not quite daring to hope. “<And so it is good to give due skepticism to… certain proposals.>” Agh, no, too direct.

\--

The sound of heavy boots against the floor stops with a final "clunk", the sound of it echoing down the hallway. Skolas peers down at Variks with an unreadable expression.

"<... Skepticism will be given as needed, yes.>"

\--

“<I assume you read Baroness Pirsis’s communiqué,>” Variks continues, tone as neutral as he can make it as he stops just behind Skolas’s shoulder.

\--

"<Briefly,>" Skolas confirms.

\--

“<And your thoughts, my kell, in light of this?>” Variks says.

\--

"<Our resources are presently too limited to handle the move on the scale proposed.>" Folding his hands together, Skolas scowls. "<But her proposal is not entirely without merit. And we have given the Awoken too much leniency, as it is.>"

\--

“<Perhaps, my kell,>” Variks says, keeping the frustration from his voice. “<But surely you can see the dangers of Baroness Pirsis’s zealousness.>”

\--

"<Scribe.>" There is an- unusual quiet underneath Variks's title. "<It is not your place to criticize my barons.>"

\--

“<With all due respect, my kell,>” Variks says, cautiously taking the quiet as an opening. “<It is my place to give you counsel.>”

\--

"<It is not,>" Skolas repeats so very softly, "<Your place.>"

\--

Variks frowns up at him. He expected Skolas to be disapproving, but he did not expect this blatant disrespect. “<My kell,>” he says, keeping the testiness he feels out of his voice. “<I believe you are confused.>”

\--

There is a sound, Skolas dragging air through his teeth distorted by his mask. He draws his shoulders back and turns on Variks with a speed that belies his mass.

"<It is not,>" he repeats, his voice steady despite the near-white flare in his eyes, the sizzling slide of an arc blade being unsheathed, "<Your place, _Judgment_ scribe.>"

"<You will not speak ill of the high barons behind their backs. You will speak no ill of them at all.>" He closes the gap between them with a single step, blocking out the lights in the ceiling. "<You will not _turn me on them_. Or any other ill-conceived foolishness you wish to bring about, speaking with such brazen heresy.>"

\--

Variks doesn’t have time to flinch backward before he’s frozen in terror, hands locked on his staff as Skolas looms over him.

Oh, Machine. He entirely misread Skolas’s response. Skolas has his sword out. Skolas is going to _kill him_.

“<My kell ->” He whispers, barely audible.

\--

Icy calm washes through him, frost spreading over steel. He stares at Variks, gripping the hilt of his blade hard enough that his gloves creak.

"<Hold still.>"

\--

The animal instinct to bolt hammers against the inside of Variks’s ribs, but he couldn’t move his limbs even if he tried.

Oh, Machine. He’s going to die ignobly at the hands of a kell who cares no more for the Accord than Virixas had, weakening Judgment even further. He’ll never know what happened to his relatives. He’s going to _die_.

\--

Skolas becomes aware, distantly of the sudden scent of fear, how it hangs sour and wrong in the air. He stares at Variks, listening to his own breath, jagged and harsh, his own pulse hammering in his head.

He stares, frozen to his spot, and realizes for the first time how very... very small Variks is.

The pinpoint pain of his claws digging into his own palms feels far away. He cannot let this disrespect stand. He cannot let Variks walk away from this unpunished. Not for daring to speak against a high baron so brazenly; people have been docked for less, and Variks is an outsider by every definition of the word.

But when Skolas commands his limbs to move, he instead finds them filled with lead.

\--

_What is he _waiting_ for?_ an ornery voice whispers in the corner of Variks’s petrified mind. _Why is he drawing out this disgrace?_

His fingers are clenched so tightly on his staff they hurt. His veil tinkles; he must be trembling.

\--

This isn't like Peekis. There are no eyes to hold him accountable, no witnesses to will his arms to move. There is only silence, save for the soft sound of Variks shaking.

"<Leave.>"

His voice is foreign to his own ears. He wasn't supposed to say that.

"<_Leave_.>"

\--

A gasp rattles through Variks, and he realizes he had stopped breathing. The animal fear leaps from his lungs and spurs his limbs to move, bowing blindly to Skolas, stumbling then striding down the hall as fast as his unpracticed feet will take him. His gait is dignified only through muscle memory, thinking only of leaving before the monster down the hall can change his mind, terrified of looking back.

Somehow, he makes it to the hall leading to his quarters before his knees buckle. Variks stays there for a hazy amount of time, half-crouched, shaking hard enough to make his veil chime.

Breathe. In. Out.

Variks needs to talk to Terix Minor. Then...

Well. Then he’ll figure out what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Skolas once told me to stand still like you. [Chirrs. Tersely] Then he cut off my arms." - Variks, the Loyal, ambient voice line, Guardian idle_  
  
  
Trivia time! The main divergence point for this AU is that Variks speaks up before Amethyst. In canon, we know that Variks contacted Uldren's Crows after the Fortuna Plummet. Petra theorizes that Variks turned against Skolas due to his brutal tactics (hit-and-run attacks on civilians and using pilot servitors as kamikaze bombers, for some), but doesn't mention anything about Skolas docking Variks. Assuming Variks isn't lying to our Guardian, it could mean that Variks tried to speak up to Skolas about his tactics sometime around the Fortuna Plummet and got his arms chopped off for the trouble.  
  
  
_"The Fang used to do hit-and-run attacks against civilian targets during the worst days of the Reef Wars. I'm not sure, but I think that's what made Variks turn against Skolas. Assassins unleashed on miners, on teachers. That's a long way to fall." - Petra_  
  
_"Are you staring at my arms, Guardian? Where Skolas_ cut _me? Look away." - Variks, the Loyal, ambient voice line, Guardian idle_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolves repair one of the ketches nearly destroyed in the Scatter. Variks hides. Skolas wonders whether he did the right thing.

The Wolfship Kaliks-Dal finally emerges from the long shadow of the asteroid Eris, whole again after months of repairs. Baron Yaliks stands proud, their hologram accompanied by a backdrop of data on the freshly repaired ketch's status.

Skolas looks over the numbers in wonder, remembering the great ship as little more than a half-dead wreck of twisted bulkheads and trusses. He remembers commanding the Kaliks-Fel to drag it away in the frantic aftermath of the Scatter. He remembers how it had spun like an untethered corpse, spilling scrap and atmosphere into the void, its surviving crew clinging to life within half-collapsed rooms. It had been one of the more intact ketches they'd salvaged after such a close brush with a Harbinger.

Looking at the ship now, intact and whole again, projected next to Yaliks... it's hard to imagine it having ever been wrecked at all.

"<Your engineers have done a truly astounding job,>" Skolas remarks, unable to keep the pride from his voice. "<The resurrection of a ketch from the verge of destruction is a rare feat. Reward yourself and your crew with celebration, my baron. We will organize more formal celebrations shortly.>"

Yaliks bows deeply before their hologram flickers away. The rest of his attending barons bow as well, their projections following, shimmering and fading away one by one.

In the aftermath of such good news, however, Skolas finds himself sitting oddly in the depths of the ensuing silence. He turns his head, half expecting to hear the faint chime of Variks's veil, half expecting to see a flash of green out of the corner of his eye.

But the space next to him is empty. Skolas stares at it for a long, long time.

\--

The long-range radio hisses next to Variks where he sits in his quarters, and he is coming to loathe the sound.

He still attends most of Skolas's meetings, always takes diligent notes and listens keenly to the events. He refuses to forgo his duties entirely, despite it all. But he no longer shadows Skolas throughout the day, no longer offers his thoughts, does his best to go as unnoticed as possible.

For there is diligence and dutifulness, and then there is foolishness. The latter is continuing to push one's luck with a kell who is willing to kill him.

(Perhaps it is foolish to even try to fulfill his duties at all. Even so, he recoils at the thought of shaming his station by stooping to Skolas’s level of negligence. So.)

Variks stands behind Skolas’s shoulder at court. He watches and listens. He maintains his library, darns his clothes, all the while discussing departure possibilities with Terix Minor, keeping vigil for any communication from other scribes.

But really, what can he do? Variks has no ship, and the theft of even a dinghy would be instantly noticed with the Wolves' keen attention. Even if he did get a ship, the Reef aliens would surely hunt him down. His House's standing has fallen, and even if his relatives were in contact with him and available to coax another House to stage a rescue, Variks has no doubt that the Wolves are in ill repute after their failure to appear at the Attempt, and he as well by proxy.

(Occasionally, Variks will scan other frequencies, pick up transmissions from the other Houses. They whisper of Ghouls on the warpath, crew after crew falling before the stolen Light.)

Variks will endure. House Judgment must survive, yes?

\--

Variks's silence... weighs more on Skolas than he'd expected.

There is guilt, of course: of not doing his duty, of not quieting the dangerous heresy and disrespect that Variks had spoken. Virixas had muzzled Variks for a reason. Had pushed the scribe into the shadows for a reason. His late kell was wise.

But there is another guilt underneath, one held tighter to his plates, one that coils and hums whenever he notices Variks slip into his periphery. The guilt that had stayed his hand and left him staring down the hallway long after Variks had stumbled shakily away.

Why? What is this? Why had he hesitated?

Skolas contemplates this, now, listening to the silence of Variks's presence behind him, the gaping void that follows him through the cycles. The void that follows him into his chambers and circles him long after he’s lain down to rest.

He's given Variks a sword in letting him go undocked for questioning one of the Wolves’ highest nobility. He's given Variks a sword, listening to him in spite of Virixas's wishes, the unspoken warning.

Underneath the living hum of the ketch currently housing him, Skolas stares at the edge of his nest, half curled on his chest. He closes his eyes, reaches out to the vast network of systems connected to his mind, digital walls parting for the kell’s access. Extensive as they are, however, the permissions that Kaliks Major had granted him were limited: Kaliks Major was not a prime. Everything that Virixas had been granted access to, Skolas could only thread shallowly through.

But... he finds a piece. A small puzzle.

Later, it is in the quiet of the meeting room that Skolas watches as the holograms of his barons flicker off.

He steadies himself, listening to the little movements behind him.

“<Scribe.>”

\--

Variks freezes mid-step, halfway to slipping out the door. Oh, no. What now?

“<My kell?>” He says blandly.

\--

Hesitation. It settles heavily in the air between them, ticking away slowly, second by second. Skolas's hand hovers over the table, his expression closed in a frown.

Then, with a sweep of his fingers, he pulls up the Judgment Accords.

"<What...>" He stops. Starts. "<What is this?>"

\--

It takes all of Variks’s self-control to keep an incredulously offended expression off of his face. Is Skolas _mocking him?_

“<It is the contractual agreement between the House of Judgment and its hosts, my kell,>” Variks says tonelessly.

\--

Skolas's frown deepens. He leans back in his seat, a hand coming up to grasp at his mask.

"<But why did ->" There's an odd dryness in his mouth, a swell in his throat. Skolas stops again, longer this time, regathering himself.

"<Was this made between you and Virixas, too?>"

\--

Despite his best efforts, Variks’s brow rises just a touch. “<Scribe Kiskis was the kell’s scribe when Virixas ascended the throne, so she was technically the person with whom Virixas made the accord.>” _What_ is Skolas getting at? (Should Variks be preparing to flee?) “<It is an accord between Houses and not individuals, if that is what you mean, my kell.>”

\--

"<I ->"

It feels like talking to Craask, somehow, the frustrating dangling of knowledge just out of Skolas's reach. But Variks isn't smug, and there is an edge to the set of the scribe's shoulders that makes something sit uneasy under his chest.

"<Why did Virixas nullify this accord?>"

\--

Variks carefully unclenches his jaw. “<He did not share his thoughts on the matter with me, my kell,>” Variks says tersely. “<I could only guess.>”

\--

"<...>"

It isn't a puzzle. It's just a piece of a puzzle. The realization has Skolas sinking into his seat, feeling suddenly like he's spinning without a tether.

"<I see.>"

\--

Variks waits for Skolas to continue, wariness scratching up the back of his neck.

\--

Virixas can't be wrong. Can he? The very idea of it is blasphemous, and Skolas feels sick to his stomach just daring to think it.

But this was an accord between House and scribe, not just kell. Why has he never heard of it? Why was the friction between Virixas and the Judgment scribes and the beginning of it all never described anywhere?

No. No. Virixas cannot be wrong. He cannot trust Variks. But Skolas... also needs to understand.

There has to be a reason. A reason why he hadn't docked Variks in the hall.

"<Thank you, scribe Variks.>"

\--

This is all...

Vaguely unsettling.

“<Of course, my kell,>” he says, bowing slightly.

\--

Skolas dismisses the accord with an oddly halting gesture before rising from his seat.

He is an eliksni of instinct, and his instincts have rarely ever driven him wrong. Maybe Variks is lying. Maybe Virixas was wise to shun him. But there is more to this matter that Skolas needs to understand either way, and he's not entirely sure where to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“"The House of Judgment shall have no ketch, but it will live among the other Houses to guide the kells and keep their secrets." —Eliksni Pact” - Gone to Ground item flavor text_  
  
  
Trivia! It's never explicitly stated what being a "Judgment scribe" entails. Variks doesn't explain outright, and he has the inconvenient (but very interesting) habit of having a noticeable discrepancy between what he says to Mara, what he says to Petra, what he says to the Guardian, and what he's thinking (like in Skolas: Captured). However, it does seem like Judgment was a group of dedicated mediators pre-Whirlwind (Prison of Elders grimoire card), which transitioned to a "House" of dedicated advisor-mediators during the exodus chasing the Great Machine. Going off of these, we've headcanoned scribes as being a combination of a professional mediator, a political advisor, and a cognitive-behavioral therapist. By making themselves entirely dependent on their host Houses for everything - ether, shelter, and children - they defined themselves as unthreatening, and therefore ideal for safe advising and secret-keeping.  
  
  
_“I was House Judgment scribe. I stood with Skolas for much of Reef Wars. Now, I stand with you in Judgment of Wolf Kell. That feels…right, somehow.” - Variks, the Loyal, Queen’s Ransom mission_  
  
_"Traveled with the many houses before Wolves. We move, across the dark. Follow the Light. Advise Kells, worshiped Primes. House Judgment must survive, yes?” - Variks, the Loyal grimoire card_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baroness Drevis is captured at the Battle of Bamberga's Wrath. Skolas and Variks discover a misunderstanding.

The slightest of errors can bring the greatest disasters. Variks doubts it will ever be clear why, exactly, the asteroid Bamberga's eccentricity was incorrectly calculated, though the team of splicers whose duties included checking such calculations have already been docked as punishment.

The punishment won't help; the damage has been done. In a daring move, a sizable squadron of Reef ships had engaged with a contingent of Baroness Drevis's fleet in a disadvantageous area of wreckage near 654 Zelinda. Her fleet had warped away to create space for a more favorable firing solution -- and jumped directly into the path of 324 Bamberga.

Drevis's ketch was destroyed, obviously, along with several skiffs. However, the Reef's transmissions indicate that, fortunately, Drevis and her high servitor, Kaliks-4, survived the impact. Less fortunately, they seem to have been captured.

Baroness Pirsis is already in pursuit of the ship purportedly holding them, helmed by some "Paladin Rife", but Variks cannot worry about that right now. The Reef should not have been able to chase Drevis so accurately into the path of an asteroid. There is a leak somewhere. There must be. So Variks stands behind Skolas's shoulder and flicks through intercepted transmission after transmission, looking for anything out of place.

\--

The Wolves fleets shift into stealth, pulling back from present engagements and fading into the vacuum. The possibility of a leak shuts down all but the most critical communications, and those the servitors encode with the highest levels of encryption available without a prime's permission.

Skolas watches the communication relays black out. Feels it, now, connected as he is with kell permissions, as if each formerly-glowing branch were a piece of his own mind. Lights flickering off one by one until it feels like he's standing alone in the silence of a darkened room.

For the sake of his own sanity, Skolas willfully ignores it.

On the bridge of the Kaliks-Fel, the kell of House Wolves watches quietly as the data trickle in. Pirsis, stalking after their enemies, planning to ambush the Awoken at Pallas. Beltrik in the periphery, readying his fleet to join the fight.

There is a tension under his lungs that hollows Skolas out. The holographic maps of the Belt are spread out in front of him, all the last-known locations of the Wolves' various fleets plotted out in light. He sends out the call for them to join on Pirsis.

Drevis is alive, and it's all that Skolas can hold onto.

As Jupiter drifts silently past, he succumbs to a moment of weakness, burying his face into his hand.

\--

The movement instantly draws Variks's attention. Again, this strange faltering, this expression of complex emotion.

Skolas's high barons -- his pack -- genuinely adore him. It is something that distinguishes him from Virixas. Reasonable to assume that Skolas would feel similarly… yet somehow unexpected.

His kell has not openly expressed remorse for threatening to kill him. However… Variks is getting the sense that there is something else going on here. And his professional instincts are making it very hard to ignore Skolas's expression of distress.

"<Calculations are showing a high likelihood of the baroness intercepting the alien commander by the time it reaches 2 Pallas, my kell,>" Variks murmurs, unable to hold the contemplative silence any longer.

\--

"<Thank you, Scribe.>"

The address, at least, does the job of pulling Skolas out of his ill composure. He drags himself upright in his seat, glaring at the projections as he curls his claws into the armrest.

Yes. Skolas trusts Pirsis's fury and experience to drive her. The Awoken know the Belt as home, but Pirsis knows the hunt.

"<You should sit,>" Skolas says. "<We will be ready to jump any time now.>"

\--

...Hm.

"<My kell,>" Variks says, in as diplomatic a tone as he can manage, "<I do not have a seat.>"

(Is Skolas truly this ignorant?)

\--

Skolas blinks at the maps for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turns a vaguely offended look at Variks.

"<Scribe,>" he says in the deadpan of an eliksni who had just discovered their nest had been filled with shielding foil.

\--

Variks returns the look with a bland one of his own, but there's a tinge of suspicion to his bearing. Surely Skolas is just being dense. "<My kell.>"

\--

"<Are you telling me you haven't been strapping in every time we jump.>"

\--

...He really hadn't noticed. "<Usually I hold on to the wall, my kell,>" Variks says, straight-faced. (Hm. Maybe dry humor is not the best idea. Too late now, though.)

\--

Skolas idly wonders where his temper had suddenly gone. That it doesn't rear its head is a small relief, but it does leave far too much space for this exhausted exasperation.

"<There are chairs everywhere for emergency maneuvers. There is a chair two steps away from you.>"

Skolas hadn't been looking, exactly, when he's strapped in. He'd just assumed the most basic level of common sense from someone of a similar station to a noble.

\--

"<...Yes,>" Variks says, brow raised. "<But there is no chair for a scribe.>"

\--

"<Variks,>" Skolas says, supremely and utterly confounded, caught off guard enough that he forgets to use Variks's title.

\--

"<...Kell Skolas,>" Variks says. There's a misunderstanding here, but he's not sure how to address it.

\--

"<What ->" Skolas tries, then stops himself. Takes a deep breath. "<Am I to assign you a seat?>"

\--

Ah. "<Symbolically, yes, my kell. For I am inherently an outsider to your House, and it would be presumptuous to sit where I have not been confirmed to be welcome, yes?>"

\--

"<....>"

That seems to stagger Skolas somewhat. He stares at Variks before slowly rising from his chair, frowning quietly.

"<Here,>" he announces, taking a step towards the nearest chair and turning it so that the seat faces Variks. "<This will be your chair.>"

\--

Despite everything, an amused grin tugs at the corner of Variks's eyes at Skolas's obvious befuddlement.

"<I accept the Wolves' welcome on behalf of my House,>" Variks says, bowing to the correct depth, "<And gladly shall we hold counsel.>" A bit belated, but it's nice to finally observe the proper formalities.

\--

"<Ah,>" Skolas utters in response, caught off guard by the clearly ritualistic response.

He… doesn't have an appropriate answer for that. All he manages is a rather stiff bow instead.

\--

Variks should be annoyed that Skolas is so obviously ignorant of the proper procedures -- but watching him fluster is amusing enough that it drowns out the distress. He stands upright with an approving expression before seating himself and arranging his robes adequately. In the future, he'll place a chair ahead of time, but for now, this will do.

(Especially considering Skolas seems to know nothing of how it ought to be done. Come to think of it, Skolas is a rather youthful kell. Perhaps he wasn't around for...?)

\--

"<Well,>" Skolas says, settling down in his own seat once more. "<That's settled then.>"

\--

"<Indeed, my kell,>" Variks says, hands folded primly in his lap.

\--

"<Am I to do this for every room?>"

\--

Don't grin. Don't grin. "<If it suits you, my kell. However, should you consider this a broadly applicable welcome, it should be more than sufficient.>"

Usually, it is part of the ceremony conducted jointly by new kells and their scribes. But it seems Skolas wouldn't know.

\--

Skolas eyes Variks just a little warily, feeling vaguely like he'd just made a deal with a wish-dragon.

"<Good. Then.>"

He's not sure if he should trust Variks. He's not sure if he should be welcoming the scribe at all. But the sudden lightness in the air between them is peculiar enough that Skolas can't convince himself to feel overly bothered.

\--

Variks nods with all the dignity he can muster. This lightness must be hysteria borne of the last few weeks of tension and fear, yet Variks can't seem to shake it off.

Best not to push his luck. But at least one thing has not gone terribly. If Skolas is willing to build the tiniest shred of rapport… Variks will gladly use it to navigate his host House through the looming storm brewing at Pallas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Prince Uldren's Crows discovered the Wolves had miscalculated the trajectory of asteroid Bamberga. A slight error, but a fatal one." —The Maraid (The Kell of Kells: Return to Petra in the Reef item flavor text)_  
  
  
Trivia! Drevis is mentioned in Ghost Fragment: Fallen 4 (The Scatter) by name along with Skolas, Pirsis, Irxis, Peekis, and Parixas, which we've interpreted as meaning they were all among Virixas's highest barons (Beltrik, for example, is conspicuously missing). She's stated to be the leader of the Silent Fang, who were "instrumental in Skolas's rise to kellship". In canon, as here, Paladin Rife got Drevis rekt by Bamberga. Bamberga also features in Orin and Namqi's story, where I guess the RSS Amestris got attacked by an ambulating nuclear core from the Distributary? I dunno. Either way, presumably that happened before Drevis crashed into it.  
  
  
_The Maraid, Book VIII, Chapter 4_  
_After a string of defeats—at Amethyst, at Hygiea, arguably at Iris—Prince Uldren's Crows finally made headway against the Wolves' encryption. They quickly discovered a seemingly unimportant piece of information: the House of Wolves had incorrectly calculated the eccentricity of the asteroid Bamberga._  
_So Paladin Imogen Rife chased Drevis, Wolf Baroness, directly into Bamberga's trajectory. Drevis' ketch was destroyed, and both she and her High Servitor, Kaliks-4, were captured._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Siege of Pallas begins. Variks realizes they're missing someone. Skolas goes through third puberty.

“<The Reef has sent reinforcements, my kell.>”

Hanging over Pallas, Pirsis the Relentless and Paladin Rife stand in stalemate. Each push met with shove, each movement countered, each strike deflected. The Wolves circle, and the Reef closes ranks. In the end, neither could move without risking collateral damage. 

In the void far beyond Pallas, the Kaliks-Syn, Skolas’s current host ship, hangs back. The kell, so near to completing his precious transformation, is kept distant from the battle. It does little to bring peace to his mind; he keeps a lid on his temper despite the increasingly wild swing of hormones, but only barely.

Pirsis’s news now does little to quell the internal chaos.

“<Keep them surrounded,>” Skolas commands. “<Hold the fleet ransom as they hold Drevis and Kaliks-4. The servitors are beginning to complete their calculations. We need to buy time.>”

\--

From where he sits behind Skolas’s shoulder, Variks narrows his eyes at the screens on the table, and then at his own displays. A tricky situation: the Reef’s installations on Pallas are well tucked into the asteroid, defended by layers upon layers of their oddly proficient web defenses. Of course, that wouldn’t stand up to an extended salvo from the gathered fleet… but that would destroy the station, and Baroness Drevis, Kaliks-4, and all the other Wolves captives aboard. 

They are quickly settling into a stalemate. Inauspicious, but if it remains so, it does provide inferences about the Reef’s capabilities.

On one of the holoscreens, Baron Beltrik speaks. “<My kell, I request a dispensation from the servitors. The station seems ill-equipped for retaliation from initial scout reports, but if they coordinate with their reinforcements, our blockade could be broken. I suggest that checking the fidelity of the jamming field should be a higher priority.>”

\--

Skolas frowns, manipulating the data that arrives with Beltrik’s words.

“<Your request will be granted. Kaliks Major will coordinate the diversion of their processing streams with Kaliks-7.>”

“<More of the fleet is arriving, my kell,>” Skriviks announces from her seat next to him.

“<Order them to maintain ranged formation. We do not know how willing the Reef kell is to pull the Harbingers out again.>”

“<We will get Drevis back,>” Pirsis promises, deathly quiet. “<If I have to tear the Reef apart with my own bare claws, we will get her back.>”

Skolas clenches his hands behind his cloak, mandibles set against his jaw. In the quiet of his own mind, he prays that Pirsis’s words become truth.

\--

The situation at Pallas solidifies into what promises to be a genuine siege, to everyone’s chagrin. Given the size of the fleet gathered around the asteroid, it does tell them one of several things about the Harbingers: either their use is so costly to the Awoken that they do not yet have the resources to use them again; that something about their use requires conditions of overwhelming victory; or that their destruction is indiscriminate, and the Reef kell does not wish to destroy 2 Pallas. Variks would bet on the latter. 

The Wolves quite clearly have the advantage here: the aliens of Pallas are cut off entirely from support, and their kell is not yet willing to sacrifice them. It is merely a question of how self-sufficient the station is, and how long it can outlast a siege.

However… there are a few things that give Variks less confidence in the Wolves’ ultimate victory.

Variks looks up from his screens at Skolas’s back. His transition to full kell stature is nearing completion, which is unfortunate timing given the hormonal fluctuations involved. Should Variks risk his ire? He still feels he is walking along the hull of a ship with only the thinnest of tethers.

\--

As the cycles pass and the blockade holds, Skolas pushes himself deep into seclusion the moment his presence on the war council is unneeded. Aksor checks on him daily now, his vital data sent to the Archon over carefully encrypted lines.

He’d thought the growing pains were obnoxious, but this? This is something else.

There are cramps and tenderness in new and odd places. There are flashes of hot and cold. Sounds become too loud, lights too bright, scents too sharp. It cycles infuriatingly with brief moments of normalcy, and Skolas clings to them desperately like a shank in a storm.

He catches Skriviks staring at him once, an oddly familiar and hungry haze in her eyes before she corrects herself with a brief fluster. It is then that he begins to notice the heavy tang of pheromones clinging to skin, to his clothes.

Skolas hunches over in the quiet of an isolated meeting room now, thighs pressed together and ankles locked against each other. The projection of the blockade glows in front of him, and he fights to see any weaknesses in the Reef’s defenses.

“< I’m beginning to regret not burning them all to start with,>” Skolas mutters to himself, hand covering his face.

\--

Skolas has not reacted poorly to humor before. Perhaps it is a good idea for Variks to test the currents. “<Ah, but then you would have no more targets left to focus on, my kell.>”

\--

“<At least then I could suffer in peace.>”

It’s a surprisingly welcome distraction, and Skolas isn’t sure how to feel about that, coming from the eliksni he’d been so sure about docking little more than a week ago. He turns to peer at Variks for a moment, eyes narrowed.

It passes quickly, the kell sitting back in his seat, crossing his lower arms together.

“<This is a fine mess the Reef has made.>”

\--

The narrow-eyed stare sends a shiver down Variks’s back. Another miscalculation? - no, Skolas is subsiding.

“<Indeed, my kell,>” Variks says, voice perfectly steady. “<One wonders why they antagonized the Wolves in the first place. It cannot end well for them.>”

\--

“< They’ve taken one of my pack,>” Skolas says, darker than he’d intended. “<I am beyond caring about their motivations.>”

\--

“<Entirely reasonable, my kell,>” Variks says, voice carefully softening in response to the barely audible undercurrent of pain in Skolas’s tones. “<Even so, with knowledge of an enemy’s motives comes the understanding of their likely next moves, yes?>”

\--

“< I’m trying to brood, Scribe.>”

There’s still that edge in his words, but it’s blunted somewhat by a sudden weariness.

“<I suppose I am a little curious about what they plan to do with a live baron and servitor,>” he says after a beat. “<Where are they taking them? Are they hoping to break them for the secrets of the House?>”

\--

Does Skolas want him to go? Stay? Variks opts to respond to the last question, if in an appropriately subdued tone. “<I can only guess, my kell.>” He pauses. “<On that topic, I discovered a troubling possibility in some intercepted Reef transmissions.>”

\--

Skolas’s eyes light up with a cautious curiosity, and he straightens slightly, attention turned fully onto Variks.

“<What did you find?>”

\--

Variks flicks a series of transcripts over to Skolas’s screen. “<We were aware of the Reef’s scavenging around Eos after the Clash. However, after having analyzed other transmissions, I believe their messages regarding their salvage from the Clash are coded.>”

Another pause; he does not know what Skolas’s response will be. “<There is a reference to a ‘frame’ in one of the salvage reports, but unlike most of the other items on the lists, there are no transmissions which conclusively refer to its destination. Additionally, garbled chatter with matching timestamps seems to indicate that this ‘frame’ was injured, but hostile and dangerous.>”

“<I believe they captured a servitor after the Clash, my kell.>”

\--

For the longest moment, Skolas looks like he’d just been punched between the eyes with an I-beam.

Every time. Every time Skolas thinks he’s beginning to see the end of the awful things the Awoken have done, he is proven wrong. The Scatter in all of its lingering grief and pain, the wish-dragon bones in their shrines, the debasement of their machines.

And now this. This awful possibility that the Wolves had unknowingly left one of their gods in the hands of these aliens.

“<Any hint as to what became of them?>” Skolas asks very, very softly.

\--

“<None, my kell,>” Variks says, just as quietly. “<I do not discount that I could have missed something, but I scoured the data very carefully. I suspect that Hygiea did not hold their greatest secrets. All I can guess is that if they intended to kill the servitor, they would have done so. They want them alive.>”

\--

Skolas stands suddenly, so fast that his chair creaks at the sudden push back. The ether in his mouth tastes like fire.

“<To what end?!>” His hands slam down on the table. The sound of it snaps Skolas out of the sudden flare of rage, and he struggles to calm himself, turning away from Variks to pace a circle around the far end of the room.

“<Are they trying to break servitor encryption?>” he wonders, bristling. “<None of their technology suggests anything remotely capable of that, but their magic....>”

\--

Variks flinches at the sudden movement, and actively jumps at the impact of Skolas’s hands.

Breathe, he reminds himself. The rage is not directed at you. Keep going. “<It is quite possible, my kell. Their technology is mostly primitive, yes, but there are occasional examples of startlingly advanced weaponry and engineering.>”

\--

Advancement thieved from their scavenging of the corpses around Eos, no doubt. Skolas’s hate for the Reef finds another dimension to grow into, another facet to reflect from. He yanks on the reins of it before it drags him down completely, coming to an abrupt stop, all hands curled into fists.

Calm. Skolas needs to be calm. These losses of control are not luxuries he can afford anymore.

Not as kell.

“<Rescuing this servitor will have to become a priority.>”

\--

“<Indeed, my kell,>” Variks says, folding his hands to control their trembling. “<Not to mention the possibility that others have been abducted before now, without detection. Unfortunately, it means they have that much more leverage over us.>”

\--

Skolas sees that little motion out of the corner of his eye and studiously keeps his gaze ahead. He folds his own hands under his cape, quashing the odd tension between his lungs.

“<This will be a standoff until we or the Reef decide to cut their losses.>”

The words taste bitter against his teeth.

\--

“<Yes, my kell,>” Variks says, watching Skolas’s back, watching him crush down the signs of his rage.

He’s still not sure what he’s doing as Skolas’s scribe. But he has more of an idea now than he did before. It will have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"What Peekis' assault lacked in finesse it made up for in sheer numbers and desperation. Irxis' ketches were pinned against Eos, and the two sides engaged in the bloody, bitter battle known as the Eos Clash, which left Irxis dead and both fleets nearly decimated. In the aftermath, the Crows salvaged one Orbiks servitor, Mecher Orbiks-11, believed to be the last of its programming." -The Maraid, Book VIII, Chapter 2, "WANTED: Peekis, the Disavowed"_  
  
  
Triviaaaaa! Mecher Orbiks-11 is the first mentioned/named prisoner of the Reef in the Reef Wars, which is interesting, given that we also know the Reef doesn't seem to respect robots/machines as people. Uldren and Mara probably wanted to hack them.  
  
  
_"In the City, Frames are equipped with a basic learning capacity, able to mimic behavioral and personality quirks. Not so in the Reef. There, Frames are seen as computers with robotic appendages—no more, no less. The Reef Cryptarchy is careful to back up and encrypt all data stored on Frames, and to wipe the Frames' processors on a regular basis." - Reef Frames, Grimoire card_  
  
_"After the Scatter, the frontrunner for the Kellship was Irxis, Wolf Baroness. While Skolas and Parixas scrambled over the Kaliks servitors, Irxis secured the command of the Orbiks servitors._  
_Their history is still unclear, but the Orbiks originate with either another Fallen house—perhaps one that the Wolves absorbed long ago—or a modification of the Kaliks servitors. Either way, the Orbiks servitors held permissions on Kaliks servitors, which allowed Irxis to wreak havoc among her rivals' forces at the start of the Reef Wars." -The Maraid, Book VIII, Chapter 1, "WANTED: Mecher Orbiks-11"_


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas and Beltrik try to adjust to Skolas's new rank.

It feels like he's burning.

Three days into his stay on Beltrik's ship and Skolas stares forlornly at Aksor as the archon runs through the full list of his hormonal changes. It feels vaguely like he's having his plating grated off with the universe's smallest file, and it takes all of his willpower to keep his expression relatively blank while he's squeezing his thighs together off-screen. All he can smell is Beltrik.

Oh, Beltrik had always smelled _nice_, of course. They've been pack for a good few years now, and one of Skolas's most dearly held memories is waking up to Beltrik's scent, clean and warm and cut softly through with a light musk.

There's 'nice', however, and then there's smelling the perfect, beautiful virility of him. It had been bad with Skriviks. It is infinitely worse now after weeks of dealing with a spinning pike-ride of emotions running the gamut from grief to anger to... this.

_This._

Being in such close proximity to his packmate, now...

"<I just need to know,>" Skolas says, interrupting Aksor mid-sentence with a bluntness he can't even think about reining back. "<If I can have sex.>"

\--

Aksor pauses, his scrolling finger coming to a halt on the other side of the screen.

“<Absolute best practices recommend another few days of abstention, but there’s no great danger to… indulging sooner.>”

\--

"<Good,>" Skolas says, edging out of his chair. "<Great! That is excellent news!>"

He stands and gives Aksor a deeply apologetic bow.

"<Forgive me, but I must leave immediately. Thank you, Archon Aksor.>"

And with that, Skolas cuts the connection and sends Beltrik a ping, sliding out of his temporary quarters and hurrying towards the high baron's chambers.

\--

Beltrik, for his part, is ensconced in a veritable cocoon of holoscreens displaying everything from intercepted Awoken reports to asteroid eccentricity calculations to resource scan results when Skolas’s ping comes through. He sits up from his half slump at the small meeting table to ping Skolas back.

"<Sko-- my kell,>" Beltrik corrects. Damn. It's been a year, and he still refers to him too familiarly when he's caught off guard.

\--

"<Do you have a moment?>" Skolas's voice spills over the line, and it is deep and gravelly, and warmed through with a thick curling heat. 

They're probably going to need more than a moment.

\--

Oh. Oh, wow. Beltrik knows that tone of voice, even if it’s so much deeper and _richer_ now.

“<Yes,>” Beltrik says, because oh Machine does he ever have time for Skolas, but-- “<It’s not… too soon?>”

\--

"<Aksor said it’s fine.>"

It's spoken just a little too quickly, a guilty-sounding explanation that suggests Aksor might know far, _far_ too much.

\--

“<Oh,>” Beltrik says thickly, and has to clear his throat. “<Okay. I’ll-- see you in my rooms?>”

\--

"<I'll be there.>"

\--

Beltrik sits where he is for half a minute among the glowing screens, struck stupid with an absolute gut-punch of desire. They've all been too busy and stressed and _distant_ to spend time together, not to mention the complication of Skolas's transition. 

The moratorium on intimacy for the last few months of Skolas's development has been... uncomfortable. Beltrik had only been called to Virixas's chambers a mere handful of times as a high captain. Frankly, it had been intimidating more than anything else. He certainly doesn't recall Virixas being as improbably alluring as Skolas has increasingly been. Skolas was already attractive, but this is just _unfair_.

Except now, they apparently _can_ get busy, and Beltrik nearly trips over his chair getting up. He has never wanted to get to his chambers faster.

\--

Skolas is waiting for him when the doors part. Massive hands reach for him, curl around him, under his cape, between his arms, one coming up to cup Beltrik's face and another reaching down to squeeze under a thigh.

"<God, Beltrik,>" Skolas utters as the doors slide closed, leaning down to press his mask against his packmate's forehead. He's already half undressed, undersuit pulled down to his waist, and his plates burning hot.

\--

Beltrik makes a strangled, helpless, embarrassingly hungry noise, body arching towards Skolas’s heat. “<Hh-- _Skolas_\-->" His arms clutch the edge of Skolas's undersuit, head spinning with the heat and the scent and the disconcerting new difference in their heights. Machine, Skolas has always been powerfully built, but now his bulk is wholly filling Beltrik's awareness, and Beltrik's brain is entirely on leave.

\--

"<I've been dreaming about this for _days_.>"

There are claws on the clasps of Beltrik's undersuit, carefully undoing each, fingers sliding under the belts on his thighs. Skolas is tugging him towards the nest, touching everything he can, pressing his face into the crook of his baron's neck and breathing in the scent of him.

\--

“<Skolas,>” Beltrik breathes, stumbling to follow Skolas’s tug, shivering tip to toe with Skolas’s face buried in his shoulder. He fumbles for the catches of Skolas’s undersuit even as his neck curves around the shape of Skolas’s head. “<Machine, Skolas, do you know how hard it’s been not to stare?>”

\--

The words draw a laugh from Skolas, deep as a Ketch's engine hum.

"<Then stare, now, my baron,>" he whispers as the back of his legs hit the edge of Beltrik's nest, and they topple into the soft sheets together. His hands are working Beltrik's suit off, another sliding greedily down the flat of his belly.

"<Stare as much as you want.>"

\--

“<Oh, I think I’ll do more than _stare_,>” Beltrik says, leering playfully, before he abruptly remembers who Skolas is now and busies himself with shaking his undershirt off of his arms.

Skolas is the kell now. Beltrik can’t say such irreverent things to him anymore. As much as the thought sends a pang through his lungs, the idea of Skolas sanctioning him for insubordinate conduct is… actually quite upsetting.

It’s easy to sweep that thought away with Skolas between his legs, Skolas’s hands feeling up his stomach. He grins down at Skolas, upper fingers teasing at his seams. Since Skolas mentioned it, he does rather like staring.

\--

There's that little skip in Beltrik's demeanor, the too-fast transition from his familiar flirting, the welcome, brazen lewdness.

Something snags in Skolas's throat briefly. _No!_ it cries out hungrily, selfishly. _Not this, too!_ He irritably swallows it down, reaching out to twine his fingers together with Beltrik's, stretching himself out on the bed for Beltrik to see.

Things have changed. They've just… changed. He is kell, and things will just have to be different now, just like his body, just like his clothes. It's still possible to have fun, isn't it? This isn't breeding; this is just a tumble in the nest with his packmate.

New boundaries, yes, but it's still Beltrik, so stunning and warm on top of him. It's almost easy to forget, when he's pulling his baron's suit down to his hips, when Beltrik is looking at him like that, touching him like that.

"<Beltrik,>" he rumbles, deep enough to make the very nest shake, drawing Beltrik down against his chest, hands undoing the straps on his packmate's thighs.

\--

Beltrik laughs, breathy and startled. “<Your voice is so _deep_,>” he marvels. It rolls through his plating and makes his skin shiver, coils the heat between his legs tight and tighter. God, he has never needed Skolas to fuck him as much as he does right now.

Usually, he’d make a quip, but now he just tugs on Skolas’s hands, his lower hands tracing along Skolas’s sides as he bats his eyes up at Skolas from under his brows.

\--

"<Oh?>"

The absence of Beltrik's usual words, his usual sexy, quick wit, it rings hollow like an empty coolant pipe under a wrench. Skolas pulls Beltrik up before his packmate could see the expression on his face, buries this _damned_ selfishness into Beltrik's warm chest.

"<Do you like it?>" he purrs against those warm plates, drowning in the scent of him as he yanks Beltrik's undersuit down to mid-thigh and pushes his hand into the space between his legs.

\--

“<Yes,>” Beltrik whispers, dizzy with Skolas’s strength, hips jolting into Skolas’s hand. “<Ye- es!>”

(He’ll get used to this, Beltrik tells himself. They’re still pack.)

Surely touching is fine. Skolas is not Virixas, after all, so -- so reaching down to cup Skolas’s jaw, to run his thumb over his cheek, that’s fine, right?

\--

Nothing in the world could stop Skolas from turning his face into Beltrik's touch, starved for the warmth of it, the gentle affection of it. This has to be alright. This, he cannot live without.

Skolas curls his arms around Beltrik, tipping his head up to press his mask against his baron's throat and humming a low, low note.

"<I love you,>" he whispers.

\--

It’s mushy as hell, but with that little phrase, Beltrik knows it will be alright; the growing pains, Drevis’s absence, the adjustment to their new roles, all of it. They still have their pack. Beltrik has Skolas.

“<I love you too, you sap,>” Beltrik whispers back, and maybe he’s going too far, but Skolas doesn’t seem to mind. It’s the greatest gift in the universe, holding Skolas in his hands.

* * *

Eventually, Beltrik’s respectable stamina gives out, much as he’s still half-drunk with pheromones and lust. He flops a hand against Skolas’s shoulder, breath escaping in a long sigh.

\--

They're a tangle of limbs and haphazardly strewn clothing and sheets. There's a boot somewhere next to his head, and Skolas is purring.

"<Mmm,>" he rumbles, still trembling with the aftershocks and far more bright-eyed and energetic than the jellified eliksni currently clutched to his bosom. "<I think this new endurance is going to be... interesting to navigate.>"

\--

“<Machine, you’re not done?>” Beltrik mumbles into Skolas’s chest, then has to suppress a wince at his flippancy.

\--

Skolas closes his eyes. God. God, can he really live without this, too?

He doesn't want to think about it, and he doesn't want to think about having to discipline Beltrik for it. So he doesn't and just lets himself live with the guilt of that weakness instead.

"<I'm not,>" he answers gently, running his hands through the sparse bristles on Beltrik's nape. "<But I think I need a functioning baron more than I need more sex, mm?>"

\--

It makes sense he’d be allowed some indiscretions, right? Beltrik is his head tactician and his packmate. They’ve known each other for years.

Machine, it’s hard to think when he’s wrung out like this. “<Well, I certainly won’t argue,>” Beltrik says, voice breaking into a yawn at the end as he burrows closer into Skolas’s embrace. “<Mm. That was good.>”

\--

Skolas chuckles. He's still steaming hot, what with the room blanketed with the smell of sex, but it's a comfortable heat now. Later, there will be time for rage again, for grief. But for now, there is respite in the relaxed curl of Beltrik's body.

"<I'll grind you to dust a bit more thoroughly next time,>" he says quietly, voice laden with a wicked promise, the tips of his claws settling gently against Beltrik's spine and trailing down.

\--

“<Ooh,>” Beltrik chuckles. “<Ohoho. I’ll have to make sure I’m in prime form, then.>” It’s alright, isn’t it? If Skolas permits it?

Beltrik arches into that gentle touch, nuzzles into Skolas’s chest, lets himself keep forgetting that they’re in the middle of a war against monsters. There’s just this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"The Servitors work the engines. The Archon plots the course. But it is the Kell who stands at the helm." - Kellhunter's Blood, Hunter chest armor_  
  
  
Trivia! The military hierarchy of the Fallen Houses in canon is a little vague beyond "there're dregs, then vandals, then captains, and then somewhere there's barons and then there's the kell on top". For instance, where do archons fit in? Where do archon priests fit in? Are they the same thing? How many archons are there usually? What about splicers?  
  
We decided that given that the Houses have militarized societies but still need basic things like "healthcare" and "food" and "childcare", there are two general career tracks. Both tracks start with spending your childhood (roughly ten Earth years) in group schooling run by splicers. The kiddos with the most obvious scientific aptitude - mechanical engineering, bioengineering, et cetera - will get apprenticed to archon priest groups for splicer training (the aforementioned priest career track) upon adolescence. The rest of the kids get assigned to captains for military training (and occasionally to barons, if they get picked out by said barons as being particularly promising), acting as support staff by doing repairs and janitorial business away from the front lines. This meshes well with the general implication that the kell, archon, and prime form a ruling triumvirate for every House!  
  
The simple career progression for the military track goes: dreg (if you fail the wildly unfair entrance examinations), vandal, captain, high captain, (low) baron, high baron, kell. The career progression for the priest track goes: splicer, archon priest, archon. There are a lot fewer eliksni in the priest track due to the stringent selection requirements, which makes them relatively rare. An archon priest's ascension to being archon is formalized by the acceptance of their prime.  
  
(Technically, this means that Aksor would still be called "archon priest" if people were being proper, since the House of Wolves doesn't have a prime servitor to confirm him (sorry, Kaliks Major!). However, people are calling him "archon" because he's taken that logistical role!)  
  
  
_"Within each Fallen House is a secret collective of tinkerers, bioengineers, and scientists devoted to the evolution of their species. These devout engineers are known as Splicers._  
_The Splicers’ purpose is found in the unraveling of biological and mechanical truths. They tear into systems to reveal their value—either as tools for survival or as advancements worthy of their reverence and deification." - Splicers grimoire card_  
  
_"...Servitors are attached to a Prime, a massive Servitor which exists in unclear symbiosis with a Fallen Archon. The Archon conveys the Kell's wishes to the Prime Servitor, and exerts some measure of control..." - Servitor grimoire card_  
  
_"Archons are revered amongst the Fallen. It is unknown whether these high priests are the caretakers of the Prime Servitors, or simply vicious arbiters of the Primes' will..." - Riksis, Devil Archon grimoire card_  
  
_"While the other Houses fought for their future on Earth, throwing themselves at the Great Machine, Skolas wasted his people in games of betrayal and ambition. Bitter pride brought a bitter end!_  
_If Skolas were a Kell he would ask his Archon to dock him." - Mystery: Fate of Skolas grimoire card_  
  
_""Archon priests rare. Dangerous. Wolf priest named Keldar kept silent during Wolves rebellion. Has resurfaced on Mars. Need to know why." —Variks" - Hunt the Archon_


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Siege of Pallas continues. Variks has an idea that Skolas might not like.

Even reduced by the Scatter, the Wolves… the Wolves outnumber the Reef.

The Reef strikes at one of their supply lines, and they simply retreat and reform it elsewhere. When one of the ketches experiences malfunctions or needs repairs, they simply swap it out with another. They shroud themselves in the stealth cloaks that hid eliksni-kind from the Whirlwind, and the Reef taxes their Techeuns just to find the edges of the blockade.

Even diminished, the Wolves still easily claim the title of the most populous and powerful of the Houses.

But there are lines that the Wolves do not cross, and the destruction of their holy high servitors is one. Killing the head of the House’s intelligence is another.

As the month drifts past, the blockade clusters close around Pallas with no sign of lifting. The Wolves’ eyes turn outwards to the reinforcements that the Reef kell has sent -- and inwards, to the marooned fleet and the aliens of Pallas struggling to compensate for the resources needed to sustain themselves and the influx of Paladin Rife’s stranded soldiers.

In the mostly empty war room of the Orbiks-Fel, Skolas stares, as he has been staring for weeks, at the map of the space around Pallas. The markers -- Wolfships in blue and the Reefships in orange -- glitter in the gloom.

“<All of our attempts to send scouts into the station have brought up only dead ends,>” he remarks dryly, all four arms crossed.

\--

“<This is foreign territory, my kell,>” Variks ventures. “<And it has only been a month.>”

Every scout has either retreated or died, with only scraps of intel for the effort. And they don’t have enough Silent Fang to spare for this. Variks has spent nights and days scouring every transmission, every mission report, asking Terix Minor for countless telemetry analyses.

He has no idea where in Pallas the Wolves captives might be and even less of a sense of where they might have put the missing servitor of the Eos Clash.

...But they _do_ have the Awoken captives from the raid on Amethyst.

“<My kell,>” Variks starts.

\--

“<Speak,>” Skolas says, flicking through the most recent reports.

The Awoken are sending out scouts, too, it seems. Some trying to find a path through the wall of ships to communicate outside of the jamming field, others trying to slip in from the outer rings of the blockade with supplies.

\--

“<We are at an impasse,>” Variks says. “<We cannot pierce the asteroid’s defenses without destroying it, and the Reef cannot roust us without destroying its own people.>” He pauses. “<At this juncture, it would be valuable to clarify what the ultimate goal is, yes?>”

\--

“<The safe return of our servitors and our high baroness and her surviving crew.>”

Hand hovering over a stray screen, Skolas turns to look at Variks.

“<Where are you going with this?>”

\--

Perhaps best to be blunt. “<I am unsure if the chances are good that we will be able to recover them by force.>”

\--

Skolas scowls, heavy and dark. “<What other options do we have?>”

\--

That is not an encouraging expression, but it’s too late to stop now. “<We have their station held hostage. And, more directly, we still have a few dozen aliens in cryostasis.>”

\--

“<The leftovers from Amethyst.>”

Rolling his shoulders, Skolas turns his scowl onto the projected image of the blockade.

“<Are you suggesting negotiations?>”

\--

Variks shrugs. “<A bluff would no longer work, since they’re likely aware by now that we are unwilling to risk the safety of Drevis and Kaliks-4. Similarly, they are likely aware that we know they are unwilling to destroy Pallas. A prisoner exchange would get them back.>” Variks pauses again. “<Additionally, I do not see another likely option for recovering any other captives they may have secreted away.>”

\--

“<Hah.>”

Covering his face, Skolas abruptly slumps deeper into his seat. He laughs again, the sound distorted around his fingers, utterly devoid of mirth.

“<Scribe,>” he says softly. “<Have you not seen what they’ve done to us?>”

\--

“<They have slaughtered your comrades, your children, and your kell,>” Variks says plainly. “<They have made a mockery of decency.>” All true, but Variks wants to know where Skolas is going with this.

\--

“<What, in any galaxy, makes you think they would even consider the possibility of negotiations?>” Skolas asks, bitter as tainted ether.

\--

“<Surely they want the captive aliens back,>” Variks points out reasonably. “<And they’re clearly capable of speech.>”

\--

There is a headache blooming behind Skolas’s eyes, and he takes a moment to press his fingers against the skin between his brows.

“<And when they have them and theirs back, they will know we are foolish enough to negotiate with people who have decimated half of our population.>”

\--

Variks shrugs. “<Perhaps. Who knows how their minds work? But we will have the baroness and high servitor back. The question is whether one is willing to sacrifice those lives for pride, yes?>”

\--

Skolas’s face crumples briefly, a twist of rage and hate and pain. An expression that he turns quickly away from Variks and towards the empty chairs opposite of him instead, head finials catching the blue glow of the projector.

\--

Variks stiffens reflexively. Risky. He didn’t need to phrase it like that.

But, he consoles himself, Skolas very obviously curbed his response, which Variks will consider a good sign.

“<If it works,>” Variks continues, voice steady, “<it could suggest that mass hostage-taking is a good tactic for putting pressure on central hubs. Take a small settlement hostage, demand the location of an important data node, yes?>”

\--

It is unshakably sensible. It could potentially save Kaliks-4 and Drevis, and it would come at little to no resource cost to the Wolves.

But the weight of the Scatter hangs over him like a reactor core, and Skolas curls his fist against the table at the thought of it, the thought of baring their throats to these heretic aliens.

“<_If_,>” Skolas says through his teeth, “<it works.>”

What do they have to lose at this point? Either the negotiations succeed, and Kaliks-4 and Drevis return to them... or the negotiations fail, and they keep the blockade until either they or the Awoken falter. The very same square they are in presently.

It is a move forward. It is any motion forward at all.

\--

“<If it works,>” Variks agrees. “<So long as we remain vigilant to underhanded tricks, we should be able to gain more intel regardless.>” Is Skolas… actually taking him seriously?

\--

Skolas breathes. Lets the ether flow through his mouth, the cool taste of it soothing the acrid taste at the back of his throat.

“<The better question is,>” he says stiffly, words weighted heavy with disbelief at the fact that he’s even considering this. “<To whom do we give the unenviable task of overseeing this.>”

\--

That… is a very good question.

“<Someone with excellent acting skills, my kell,>” Variks says to buy time to think.

\--

“<I somehow doubt we should be putting Archon Aksor in this position,>” Skolas mutters.

\--

“<It does not seem he would much enjoy it, no,>” Variks says tactfully. “<Experience with the alien speech would also be helpful, as well as foreign negotiation experience.>”

\--

“<The Scatter also took our most experienced diplomats.>” Skolas runs his hand over the back of his neck, internally lamenting yet another thing thieved from them by the Scatter. “<One of the Fang, perhaps?>”

\--

“<...Do they have any experience with diplomacy?>” Variks asks dubiously.

\--

“<No.>”

\--

“<Hm.>” This is… unfortunate. Variks taps his fingers on his staff. “<Perhaps I could coach someone of your choice, my kell?>”

\--

Skolas turns his gaze onto Variks and takes a long moment to think about this travesty that he is, apparently, planning on following through with.

“<I will,>” he says after a long moment. “<Consult Baron Beltrik on the matter.>”

\--

Variks dips his head. “<You are wise, my kell.>”

Great Machine. Skolas is actually considering it.

\--

Turning back to the projections, Skolas lets the silence settle over them, his mind running in circles.

Convincing Pirsis is going to be very interesting, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Where is the Great Machine? Where is the Great Machine?" —Chelchis, Kell of Stone, Harrowed Doom of Chelchis, legendary scout rifle_  
  
  
Trivia! "The Whirlwind" is what the eliksni call their Collapse, when _something_ showed up and kicked the shit out of the eliksni homeworld, and the Traveler fled to come to the Sol system. The eliksni we see in-game are the descendants of the survivors who fled on their ketches. Assuming the Traveler can travel really damn quickly, we can assume that the eliksni were in transit to the Sol system for roughly three to four hundred years, or the duration of the human Golden Age -- plenty of time to devolve into military dictatorship!  
  
Another interesting thing to note is that when enemy factions fight each other in Destiny 2 gameplay, the NPCs don't seem to see Marauders with their stealth on -- including Hive and Taken. Guardian player characters _do_ see a faint outline, but they're even mostly masked from radar. Additionally, no one seems to be able to track ketches and skiffs when they're stealth-cloaked. Based on this, it seems likely that the eliksni escaped their Whirlwind (which we don't hear of _any_ of the other Traveler-blessed species being able to do) with the use of their stealth technology.  
  
  
_"First, the Great Machine. Then, sky fell away. Whirlwind ripped away the past. All honor lost, all hope. Judgment not enough. Cannot keep Wolves from Kings, Scar from Winter. Fell to fighting. Fell to hate..." -- Variks, the Loyal, grimoire card_  
  
_"Slipping out of stealth only to offload a crew of Fallen, the Skiff is rarely seen. On the other hand, its rumbling, booming arrival is difficult to miss - as are the weapons it uses to support its troop deployments." -- Skiff grimoire card_  
  
_"Sekris's skill with cybernetics and Servitor mechanics allowed him a far greater lifespan than most of his kind. One of the reasons I picked him to Shadow me, and his peers were left to languish._  
_The Baron of Shanks could even recall a time when the Traveler had blessed his people. He rarely spoke of it, even to me, and I didn't press him. When one knows what Calus knows, Traveler-lore is meaningless. But I mention it only to say that he despised your kind with a particular ferocity that most of his people could not muster." -- Calus, Boots of Sekris_


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas and Pirsis have a reunion, and a chat.

Heavy, rhythmic footfalls rattle on the bridge of the Orbiks-Fel. One way and then the other, pacing out the length of the grand room. 

Pirsis is the Relentless. She is not temperamentally inclined to patience, to caution.

Until recently, she would have said the same of Skolas.

It’s out of character, Pirsis muses as she crosses the empty room again, that is for certain. She’d known even before the Eos Clash that Skolas’s brashness would need to be tempered, his admirable fire harnessed. Now she finds herself in the position of encouraging him to action. Unsettling. Unusual. And now he has proposed negotiating with the aliens for their captives?

Oh, Pirsis will grudgingly admit it makes a certain amount of sense, especially with the guess that there are more captives hidden away elsewhere. But it’s not a particularly respectable or glorious tactic and, more to the point, it isn’t the sort of thing Skolas has suggested before.

But then again, Pirsis considers, crossing the room once more, hadn’t Skolas changed from vandal to captain? To high captain? To baron? The arclight, the devotion is the same...perhaps this is merely the path it takes in kellship?

No, she thinks, stopping in her tracks and rubbing a hand over her face, no, even with that being so, this is not like Skolas. It is not like him to delay righteous retribution upon their enemies.

And to top everything off, she hasn’t seen him in person in a month.

Soon he will be boarding, she consoles herself. And therein lies an opportunity for answers.

\--

“<Kell Skolas’s arrival: imminent,>” announces the pilot servitor stationed on the bridge.

The chamber lights up with a flash of transmat, and Skolas materializes several feet in the air. He lands on his feet with a heavy clunk of armored boots, his cape billowing around him. He opens his eyes and peers around the bridge, taking a moment to recenter himself, straightening his mantle, before turning to find Pirsis.

“<My baroness,>” he greets, inclining his head correctly in welcome to his packmate. “<It is good to see you whole.>”

\--

Perhaps it is more becoming of a baroness to be suitably formal with her kell, especially when she’s a bit cross with him. But she hasn’t seen him in a month, and she’s as happy to see him as ever.

“<My kell,>” she says, sweeping a curtsey, before smiling up at him. “<Skolas.>”

\--

Skolas’s eyes are warmed through with affection as he strides up to her, hands reaching out to gently take hers in them.

“<It has been far too long,>” he says, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. It really has been far, far too long.

\--

Pirsis huffs, tilting her face to meet his. “<Our duties keep us busy,>” she says regretfully. Skolas’s hands are perceptibly larger than a month ago, encompassing her own easily. It’s...interesting.

\--

“<Our duties are ever unending,>” Skolas agrees, smiling quietly.

And duty is at least partially why he is here. Running his thumb over her knuckles, he feels a sudden odd flutter of nervousness, one that he swiftly tamps down.

“<Shall we head to your chambers?>”

\--

Pirsis steps closer, presses her mouth just below the crook of Skolas’s neck, and breathes in deep. Oh, he smells absolutely divine.

“<I think we shall,>” she murmurs, leaning back.

\--

A hard little shiver sizzles up his spine at the brazen conquest of his space. Skolas’s hands squeeze around Pirsis’s, his breath catching at the cool press of her mask and heat lances through his gut in a tight coil.

“<Ah,>” he manages, flustered into speechlessness, his pulse fluttering madly.

\--

Her own pulse is starting to pick up, the ether heating in her veins. Pirsis almost starts pulling Skolas to her rooms right there, but she checks herself. “<Well, my kell?>” She purrs, squeezing his hands.

\--

“<Y-yes.>”

Oh, that is wholly unbecoming of a kell. Skolas clears his throat and forces himself to gently let go of her hands before she notices the trembling in his own.

“<Yes,>” he says, steadier, gathering himself up. He then turns crisply towards the doors and starts making his way to the baron’s chambers.

\--

It takes Pirsis a moment to follow, slightly off-kilter from the sudden move. Well, she thinks as she pads along in his wake, it’s good for Skolas to cultivate more of an air of dignity, surely.

They’ve slept together in her nest dozens of times, yet already this feels different. Before it had been Skolas following in her wake with the tug of her hand, his bright eyes eager — but that’s not appropriate anymore.

Her rooms are exactly appropriate for her rank, suitably spacious and appointed with weapons and trophies, gifts from favored underlings, and a few particularly handsome tapestries and hangings. The only change from what Skolas would remember is a few missing baubles. (She’d realized that with Virixas gone, she no longer had to keep up pretenses, so into the scrap heaps they went.)

\--

It’s like returning home, or as close of an approximation to home as Skolas has ever had. Even his own chambers on the Kaliks-Fel had never felt quite as comfortable, quite as familiar. Skolas turns in the middle of her room, taking in the new perspective: he had been here first as a captain. He remembers when her nest had been up to the middle of his thighs. It barely reaches halfway up his shins now.

“<Things change so quickly,>” he says softly, turning back to Pirsis.

\--

“<They do,>” Pirsis says. A mere moment and a kell is dead, a House scattered. (Perhaps a more contemplative Skolas isn’t so bad.)

Some things stay the same, however, and Pirsis takes a good, long look at Skolas. My, isn’t that new muscle appealing. (It’s probably improper to ogle. But really, it’s such a minor thing.)

\--

He’s still so shy when she looks at him like that, even as he tries his best to keep his composure, to keep an appropriate remove. His head dips before he consciously thinks about it, and it’s a struggle to drag his thoughts back together.

Clearing his throat again, he steadies himself.

“<Archon Aksor has announced that I am ready to begin...breeding.>”

It sounds so mechanical when he says it like that.

\--

Pirsis’s brow rises slowly up her face. “<I...should hope so, my kell,>” she says, glancing around the room. He did suggest they go to her chambers.

\--

“<And I. Hrm.>”

This is so incredibly awkward. How did Virixas ever do this with a straight face?

\--

“<...>” Pirsis’s brow remains raised as if to say ‘go on’. Should...she be doing something?

\--

“<I- want you to be the sire of my first clutch,>” he says. Then winces at the formality of it.

Pirsis had always led in their personal ventures together. It feels so very wrong that she is not leading now.

\--

“< I’m- honored, my kell,>” Pirsis says, reflexively bobbing a shallow curtsey, and this is all so stilted.

“<Truly,>” she says, smiling tentatively up at him, and means it, Machine does she mean it. She can just about taste Skolas’s affection in the gesture, underneath the ceremony.

\--

Skolas had a speech. It is utterly lost to him now, the words he’d spent most of the week practicing when he hadn’t been coordinating matters related to the blockade and organizing the negotiations that Variks had proposed. 

How does he even pretend aloofness to someone who has seen so much of him? How does he keep distance when he still feels the lingering pressure of her mask against his neck?

“<I->” he tries again. “<I.>” 

And then Skolas heaves a sigh and simply reaches out and takes her hands once more.

“<By the Machine’s spinning _merciful _grace, why does this have to be so damned awkward?>”

\--

“<...Is that what you’re doing?>” Pirsis laughs, the confused tension leaving her shoulders. “<Great Machine, Skolas. You don’t have to obligate me into your bed, you know.>”

\--

“< Isn’t that standard for the - ah. Kell’s first breeding?>” Skolas asks, cupping her darling face. His hands are so much bigger than he remembers them being against her cheek.

\--

Pirsis shrugs, wholly unconcerned. “< It’s extremely unarousing, that’s what it is.>” Her upper hands cup Skolas’s, calluses catching on his knuckles. “<And therefore counterproductive, I should think.>”

\--

“<Oh,>” Skolas says unintelligently, and he can’t help feeling like he’s trying to drive a chained pike.

\--

A slight frown creases Pirsis’s face, but only for a moment before it melts into a soft grin. Skolas always wants to do right by her, by everyone.

“<I am honored to share your nest, my kell,>” she says, a blend of formality and fondness.

\--

“<I, too, am honored to have you now as the sire of my first clutch,>” Skolas murmurs, her smile somehow making this easier now. Curling his arms around her, he smiles in return, wishing he could somehow show her all of his love. “<My dear baroness. My dear packmate.>”

\--

Yes, Pirsis thinks with approval, this is just so. Dignity, yet warmth and loyalty.

“<My kell,>” she purrs.

\--

There’s that flicker of nervousness in the back of his mind, the worry that he might not be able to live up to the promise, that he might somehow malfunction and find himself barren. 

He quells that thought. He cannot doubt Aksor.

And besides, he’s been sitting at the very peak of his cycle for a solid day now, and every heat-slickened thought has been about Pirsis. Pirsis between his legs, Pirsis’s scent filling his mouth, Pirsis’s touches and gaze —

Suddenly the room is flooded with a rush of pheromones, and Skolas curls his arms around her, leaning down to nuzzle the side of her face.

“<Pirsis,>” he whispers, claws trailing down the clasps of her undersuit.

\--

“<Oh,>” Pirsis breathes, voice abruptly thick with lust, hands clutching Skolas’s sides. “<Oh, my kell, please.>” 

She’s knelt to a kell before purely out of duty. This—she might melt where she stands if Skolas doesn’t undress her now.

\--

Another skip. Pirsis is pleading. Pirsis is pleading to him.

Oh, it makes perfect sense, of course. They are kell and baron now and not peers on somewhat equal footing. But it still settles so oddly in his ears, and it takes all of Skolas’s not-unimpressive randiness to gloss over the matter and cover the falter by tugging her onto the nest.

“<I should have dressed more lightly,>” he says breathlessly as he undoes each clasp, each strap, fingers trembling with want.

\--

“<Agreed,>” Pirsis says, voice hoarse as she settles on Skolas’s lap. This is new, yes, in the sense of not having done this with Skolas before, but- she thinks she could get used to this. Yes.

* * *

Skolas is _glowing_.

Curled around Pirsis, he quietly marvels at the feeling, stroking lazy patterns over the dark plating on her hip, her thigh. There are aches in new places, but they’re pleasant ones now. New things discovered, new pleasures he’d never really imagined before.

The warm humming between his thighs is still hungry, but Pirsis is...

Hm. Just a little indisposed.

\--

Pirsis can’t feel her legs. It’s glorious.

“<Well,>” she breathes, head lolling to the side, “<You most certainly don’t have to obligate me into your bed.>”

\--

“< I’m glad,>” Skolas laughs softly, trailing his hands over the scars in her weathered plates in quiet, loving admiration. He can see all of her long experience and service written into her carapace, and it’s awe-inspiring. Beautiful.

A lilting, playful note in his voice, he rumbles, “< I’ve not put you out of commission, have I?>”

\--

“<Not in bed, you haven’t,>” Pirsis teases back, and there’s just the slightest bite in the returning jibe, almost entirely smothered by the purring enjoyment in her voice.

\--

The flirtatious mirth in his voice mellows out as his laughter fades. Skolas watches her face, still smiling, still warm, but it’s just a little more distant. Brushing his thumb over her brow, he hums softly.

“<Is there something on your mind, my baroness?>”

\--

A gusty sigh. “<My kell, do you want me to bring it up right now?>”

\--

“<Would you prefer to turn it in as a missive?>” he asks, tracing the edge of her horn.

\--

“<...>” Would she? Not particularly. It feels ill-omened. “<I acknowledge that these cautious tactics are producing adequate outcomes thus far,>” Pirsis says, tone measured, yet softened by the gentle touch on her head. “<However, you must surely see the same negatives as I do.>”

\--

“<Would we have caught the Reef breaking our encryptions if we had been less cautious?>” Skolas asks, letting the hand come to rest against the front of her shoulder.

\--

Pirsis makes a frustrated noise. “<Perhaps! We don’t know!>”

\--

“<My baroness,>” Skolas says softly. “<I am kell now. I hold the lives of all the House in my arms. I cannot throw away those lives so easily, I cannot let the Reef bait us into further destruction. Cautious is what I must be.>”

\--

Pirsis thumps a fist against the nest. “<I know! I know you have your duty to the House foremost in your heart! I do not challenge that.>”

\--

“<Then what course correction do you propose?>” He cups the back of her neck with utmost care. "<Pirsis?>"

\--

“<They do not fear us,>” Pirsis hisses. “<They would not have dared such a trap as Bamberga if- if->” Curse it, her words are failing her.

\--

“<We do not know what they fear.>” Very, very gently, he presses his forehead against Pirsis’s. “<We do not know if they would have ever feared us at all.>”

\--

Pirsis masters her discomposure enough to glower. “<That is not the point, and you are well aware of it.>”

\--

“<What point should I make, then?>” Skolas says, the first flickers of impatience in his voice. “<That the only reason we haven’t been decimated now for bringing the whole fleet to bear is that we’re too close to their outpost?>”

\--

“<If anything, we should be closer,>” Pirsis sighs. “<How long before they whisper up something worse than those Harbingers whilst we sit around and stare at our baroness’s prison?>”

\--

“<And what will we do when we are closer?>”

\--

“<Raid the station and reclaim our people! We need not barrage the asteroid when it is clear they have no experience in ship-boarding maneuvers.>”

\--

“<They will kill Kaliks-4,>” Skolas says mercilessly. “<They will kill Drevis. If they see no victory, if they see no other recourse.>”

\--

“<And they may very well kill them anyway,>” Pirsis says, voice icy. “<We barely obtain confirmation that they are still alive as it is. We want to recover them, do we not?>”

\--

“<If they’d wanted them dead, they’d _be _dead.>” Skolas’s own voice is edged with fire. “<There is another nefarious purpose to this, but it is not something we will ever find out if the House’s spymaster is killed!>”

\--

“<So what?>” Pirsis barks. “<We sit in orbit hoping we’re right about the Harbingers until they willingly throw their captives out of the airlock?>”

\--

“<Pirsis.>” The flames fade as quickly as they come, dimming into embers. Skolas closes his eyes.

\--

“<...>” The sudden quiet takes the fuel from her engines. “<...Skolas.>”

\--

“<Just,>” he tries, the embers fading too, sparks wisping into smoke. “<Just...>” 

And he exhales slowly. Reaches out to carefully take her hand, guiding it to press against his belly.

“<Let us enjoy this,>” Skolas whispers. “<Let us think about this. Just for now?>”

\--

Pirsis puffs up, readies herself to deny it… and deflates again. 

“<Very well,>” she says, tone subdued.

\--

“<I love you,>” Skolas says, so quiet it’s barely more than vibration against her brows.

\--

Pirsis sighs, no more than a quiet hiss from her mask.

“<I love you too.>”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"In the pack leader we trust." -- Wolfborne Oath, legendary shotgun_  
  
  
Trivia! While a lot of the wolfy terminology used around the members of the House of Wolves is probably just poetic license in English/the Speech/whatever it is that Guardians speak, and the focus on Skolas's personal life is probably a factor of the tenth chapter of the Maraid being the only real account we have of eliksni history... we have decided to headcanon that the House of Wolves has a social construct that we're calling a "pack" (it's probably called something else in Eliksni).  
  
A pack is basically a "kitchen table" polycule which centers around one central member or "pack leader" (for example, Skolas) and the people they've claimed as their pack, usually lower-ranked, who are often but are not always also in relationships with each other. For example, Pirsis, Drevis, Beltrik, and Grayor are all members of Skolas's pack, and are in relationships with Skolas, but Grayor doesn't usually interact with Pirsis on his own. The "pack" is probably an artifact of some traditional family structures pre-Whirlwind, translated to the "nepotism"-friendly military society of the House of Wolves.  
  
  
_""Wolf Pack" is our name for 'em. Skolas' entourage—the ones closest to him. We hurt any one of them, we hurt Skolas."_  
  
_WANTED: Any and all high-ranking members of Skolas' inner circle, a.k.a. "The Wolf Pack"..._  
_Wanted for: Treachery and high treason against the Queen; sedition; war crimes; evading justice_  
_Description:_  
_\- Fallen Class: Vandals, Captains_  
_\- Stealth camouflage_  
_\- Weapon: Shrapnel Launcher_  
_Affiliations: Skolas_  
_Bring proof of kill to PETRA VENJ, Vestian Outpost (5560 Amytis)_


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Variks coaches Beltrik in diplomacy. Skolas has an uncomfortable medical examination, and broods.

Typically, Variks would have more time to train his advisee. Typically, Variks would be teaching his advisee, and not one of his subordinates.

Baron Beltrik is, at the very least, an attentive instructee. Fairly responsive, too, if suspiciously courteous. Not that Variks can say anything about that, considering he’s deploying impeccable etiquette himself out of wariness.

“<Of course,>” Variks says, flicking away most of the screens, “<This will not cover everything. But it is a start.>”

\--

Before the Scatter, there had been Archon Priest Baksis, the primary overseer of diplomatic matters for House Wolves. The alliance between Kings and Wolves had long since been established by that time, through the trade of then-Kings Archon Priest Aksor for the Wolves’ High Baron Craask.

It had been the beginning of the organization for the Last Attempt, the vast undertaking seeded by the House of Kings. It had been the beginning of a robust diplomatic outreach program that had even the zealously belligerent Devils cooperating for the attack. A vital matter, when Earth resided so solidly within their territory.

All of their effort, all of their hard work, destroyed in the Scatter.

Beltrik had pored over the remnants of the data Baksis had left behind. Had quietly lamented the loss of this beautiful, diplomatic outreach- and of Baksis herself, looking at the body of unfinished work that remained in place of her corpse.

What would have become of them if the Scatter hadn’t happened? The Houses unified, their fleets whole, the Great Machine at long last returned to their hands? Looking at Baksis’s work, he can almost believe the Houses could have remained allies, instead of immediately falling to squabbling and in-fighting as they always have.

Baksis, however, never had to negotiate with _aliens_.

And Baksis had certainly never received diplomatic coaching from a shunned scribe of House Judgment.

As the presentation comes to its conclusion, Beltrik wonders at this queer turn of events as he sits back, peering over the top of his notes at Variks.

“<I think I am becoming quite enlightened,>” he says mildly.

\--

“<That is good,>” Variks replies blandly, for lack of anything better to say. “<You have the raw abilities for negotiation: an observant nature, facility with socializing, and a good memory. You should be quite capable of this task.>” Capable, yes. It remains to be seen whether Beltrik wishes to do it _well_, for Variks’s definition of ‘well’.

\--

“<Thank you, Scribe Variks.>” Dipping his head in acknowledgment, Beltrik continues primly. “<I didn’t know the scions of House Judgment received such training. But I suppose Judgment always was negotiating with the other Houses....>”

\--

_Oh, so very clever you are for deducing the obvious_, Variks thinks sarcastically. Out loud, he only says, “<Thank you, Baron Beltrik. We strive to do our duty by our host Houses.>”

\--

“<It will be interesting, if nothing else, to attempt negotiation with a species whose history seems steeped in isolationism,>” Beltrik says, looking over the translated notes on the Reef texts that they’d pulled from 10 Hygiea.

\--

“<Indeed,>” Variks says thoughtfully. “<However, provided they have some facility of thought and provided that they do, in fact, value Pallas, they won’t have a choice in the matter. Especially if you convince them of their helplessness.>”

\--

It doesn’t seem like something Skolas would have thought to do, is all. Skolas had struggled in the time of relative peace prior to the Attempt, worse so than even Pirsis; a scarred ex-Scorch captain who’d once cut swathes through the Kings as he rose to the barony. He should be roaring for Pallas to be laid to waste before him. 

Beltrik gives Variks a narrow, appraising look. Certainly, Variks’s increasing favor in Skolas’s eyes is no coincidence, but…what had changed?

“<The stakes are high, but at least the terms to negotiate are straightforward. Some of theirs for some of ours.>”

\--

A prickle rises on the back of Variks’s neck, but all he does is smile blandly. “<It is a boon indeed. Do you have any questions?>”

\--

“<None thus far,>” Beltrik says, standing from his seat. “<Should any arise, I will be sure to bring them to you.>”

\--

“<Excellent,>” Variks says, rising as well. “<You have my comm code, yes?>”

\--

“<Thank you, Scribe Variks,>” Beltrik says, bowing again. “<May the Great Machine favor us in this endeavor.>”

* * *

A week later, Kaliks Major drags Skolas away from his duties with a firm command for his barons to take charge. They transmat him to the archon’s chambers where Aksor and several archon priests await him.

There Skolas is stripped bare and made to lie on a cold examination table as Kaliks Major runs a series of scans on his body. First, they confirm the presence of fertilized eggs. Then they measure his overall health and his body chemistry, comparing new information to the historical data pulled from the various chips installed throughout his body, checking for unexpected changes. 

He does his best not to squirm. It is… an unfortunately futile endeavor, especially when one of the priests steps forth and hands Aksor two pairs of sterile gloves. 

One _thorough_ and thoroughly _uncomfortable_ hands-on examination later, Skolas can’t help thinking about how he’s never been so _stars-damned _unaroused by the presence of someone between his thighs. He’s left stinking of stress and medical-grade lube, dressed in a modesty robe so thin it exists only for the illusion of dignity. He clutches to it like a lifeline as major and archon sort through the results of their tests, trying not to quail too obviously under the removed and neutral gaze of Aksor’s priests.

When all is deemed satisfactory, the major promptly transmats away, returning to their simulations of the blockade. Skolas begins haphazardly throwing on his undersuit, the rest of his attire still held by the archon priests standing attentively around him. 

Aksor casts him an unreadable look, peeling off his gloves and bagging them for the incinerator.

“<Well,>” he says, and the damn bastard’s tones remain as incomprehensible as ever. "<Congratulations, Kell Skolas.>"

\--

It had been uncomfortable to be observing the high barons’ meeting without Skolas’s tolerating presence, but he was not about to argue with the major. When Skolas slinks into the nearly-vacated upper deck meeting room, well after said meeting was over, Variks has to take a second look to confirm what he’s seeing. For one, Skolas does not _slink_. For another, he’s somehow managing to look both cornered and debased, which, while novel, is distracting Variks from his attempts to read this travesty of a scouting report. He has serious questions about the author’s literacy. 

Then the thick fumes of medical lubrication and embarrassment waft through Variks’s mask, and he abruptly puts the pieces together. Ah. Skolas’s maturation must be complete.

“<My kell,>” Variks says. “<You, ah... Seem hale.>” The great idiot looks shell-shocked. It is more amusing than it has any right to be, but Variks does not allow himself to grin.

\--

Variks gets the most withering of glares as Skolas hurriedly shovels all the information from the missed meeting onto his secured datapad.

“<Not,>” he growls in warning. “<Another. Word.>” 

Oh, it is certainly not conduct becoming of a kell, but Skolas just wants to crawl back into the safety of his room and shower for a solid hour. He does not want to see another soul for a good cycle.

_Minimum_.

\--

For the first time, Skolas’s glare doesn’t make Variks feel like a target in crosshairs. Not with the bashful discomfort the massive kell is radiating along with the smell of medical lube.

Instead, he rather wants to chuckle.

Diplomatically, he remains silent and wordlessly sends Skolas his summary of the meeting.

\--

Any kind of steam Skolas had been building fizzles out when he sees the transfer request.

Eyes narrowing, he keeps his gaze trained on Variks. His datapad blinks, signifying the completion of the encrypted transfer, and the kell picks it up, tucking it against his chest.

Then he proceeds to scuttle back out of the room like a lurking Thrall, not breaking line of sight until the doors slide closed between them.

\--

The comedic way Skolas shuffles out is the last bolt that bursts the tank, and Variks barely manages to count to twelve before putting his head on the table and laughing until his throat hurts.

\-- 

Another week in and Skolas begins to feel another change, another transformation on top of the increasingly intense hormonal swings. There’s a strange new weight underneath his plating, an aching swell that makes itself known when he wakes up one day, curled around a worn-out Skriviks. He puts it out of his mind and proceeds to gently coax another round out of the baroness.

Two weeks in and Pirsis stops mid-sex, hilt deep in Skolas, to the sound of his pitiable, wanton gasp, pressing a hand to her kell’s tender belly.

“<Skolas,>” she whispers, and her awed tone is peculiar enough to draw him out of his spell. “<I can feel them. I can feel your eggs.>”

The orgasm that follows afterward is _particularly_ stunning.

Near the end of the fourth week, Skolas feels so heavy he can barely walk the length of the hallway without utterly exhausting himself. An astounded Aksor orders him on a richer ether mix. It gets to a point where Kaliks Major transmats into his chambers at the beginning of each sleep cycle to stream him said ether personally.

He starts every single time it happens.

For someone so thoroughly built around the image of independence and strength, this peculiar weakness quickly becomes frustrating. It is miserable. It makes Skolas cantankerous and simmeringly moody. 

And it leaves him sitting, brooding both figuratively and literally, in the guest room of Skriviks’s ship when Beltrik first announces the invitation to negotiation.

Only the sudden halt of almost all Reef activity outside the blockade makes his present disposition worth it.

When he arrives on the bridge with a flash of transmat, it is hours after the talks have begun. He is significantly more sluggish than would be ordinarily acceptable, ambling more than striding, peering at Variks with a mixture of exhaustion and grim determination.

“<Well? How go the negotiations?>”

\--

“<They are going well, my kell,>” Variks says, as he always does. (Perhaps one day soon, he’ll feel secure enough to be straightforward.)

Skolas’s absence is always keenly felt by his high nobles, the lack of his insulating presence bringing many discussions to a stalemate… But his pack is, for the most part, capable of functioning unsupervised.

Not least because of Baron Beltrik’s unstated tolerance of Variks; with another member of Skolas’s pack implicitly approving of him, it makes it that much less likely that Pirsis will implicitly threaten to wring his neck. Beltrik’s training has already been of use in this preposterously drawn-out negotiation. One would think the aliens would not want to starve Pallas any further, and yet the dignitaries from the still-unlocated Vesta insist on dragging their heels.

No matter. Beltrik has done an excellent job of wearing them down, coaxing them into accepting their losing situation.

\--

“<Good.>” 

Skolas settles heavily in his chair, every joint aching, but he needs to see this through.

The screens settle around him, and he can see Beltrik’s face in the central one, set in a neutral mask of diplomacy. On another screen, Skolas sees the face of one of the alien dignitaries, its strange, oval visage and glowing skin pulling a reflexive sneer from him.

“<As I recall, this ordeal took months with the Kings,>” he mutters in distaste. “<I pray this does not stretch on nearly so long.>”

\--

“<Perhaps,>” Variks says. “<But the situation was not quite so urgent then, my kell.>”

His own gaze alternates between appraising the alien’s reactions, noting Beltrik’s strategies, and watching Skolas. He has been around newly promoted kells before, even if not directly assigned as their scribe, and relative to those experiences Skolas is doing an adequate job dealing with it. Variks only hopes his yield is good; obviously, he is not barren, but a new kell with a low rate of egg production is always a source of instability.

\--

“<... No. I suppose not,>” Skolas agrees, somewhat mollified. Objectively, the scale tilts in their favor: the entire population of Pallas and the trapped Reef fleet versus a single servitor, baroness, and the remnants of the Kaliks-Tal’s crew. They have more leverage here, less to lose.

Skolas is simply dreadful at holding onto objectivity.

\--

Variks hums affirmatively, peering at Skolas out of the corner of his eyes. He’s reasonably sure by now that Skolas would not disrupt the negotiations rashly… but Skolas’s moods are still unpredictable.

\--

Beltrik is unspeakably beautiful. A silken, handwoven, Wolves-blue shawl is draped over his shoulders, the intricate patterns ending in silvery, beaded tassels. It matched the shimmering veil hung over his face and mask, embroidered with platinum brocade in sacred circular patterns. The title listed under his screen is Lower Baron Peiviks: another measure of safety, distancing the baron heading the Hildian Campaigns from the present talks.

Skolas folds his lower hands over his aching belly and wills himself to be calm. Calm. The sight of Beltrik is almost enough, but servitor translations of Awoken speech don’t completely mute the Reef dignitary’s thin, pitched voice, and it makes him bristle.

\--

"<My kell?>" Variks asks, catching the sudden spike of irritation.

\--

“<Such miserable creatures,>” Skolas mutters darkly. “<My only comfort is the potential return of my Wolves.>”

\--

“<As you have said, my kell,>” Variks ventures, “<if they have not killed them already, they likely will not in the future. Particularly if we dangle the potential for the return of their own underlings in front of them.>”

\--

“<I still wonder if I should have listened to Pirsis. If this could have been avoided altogether if only we had pushed harder.>” Resting his chin atop his fist, Skolas scowls as he casts Variks a sidelong glance. “<Strange that I do not believe it would have warded off this travesty.>”

\--

“<There is no way to know for sure, my kell,>” Variks says. “<But in all responses in this war, you have held your people as the highest priority, and that is as it should be for a kell. With aliens too prideful to be cowed, and too unpredictable to be cornered, caution is wise.>”

\--

“<I want them dead, still,>” he confesses quietly. “<I want them all to pay for the Scatter. I want them to rot away, starving in their outposts, I want their kell’s rotting head adorning my throne. But the longer this war goes on… the more I see the possibility of their demise spinning further out of reach.>”

\--

“<It is right and good that you should want them dead,>” Variks affirms. “<They are a blight, make no mistake. But better to suffer them to live, than for this blight to take your people as it dies, yes?>”

\--

“<....>”

Closing his eyes, Skolas lets the soft sound of Beltrik’s voice flow over him. He lets the strange new aches of his body ground him, chasing away afterimages of little corpses floating in the dark depths of a ruined ketch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Though the Silent Fang suffered a serious blow when Drevis was finally thrown in the Prison of Elders after the Siege of Pallas, they continued to threaten the Queen's forces until the war's end.” - The Silent Fang grimoire card_  
  
  
Trivia! Although the Spider says in the flavor text of the Downpour Captain bounty that the Prison of Elders was a "collaboration between the Awoken and the Eliksni"... this is probably a misrepresentation because the Prison of Elders definitely existed before the Wolves were enslaved by the Reef; after all, Drevis got thrown into it after the Siege of Pallas was broken, which was before the Uprising at Cybele, and that's probably where they put Mecher Orbiks-11 after the Eos Clash. (While we don't have time to go into it here, it's entirely plausible that the Spider was Mara's flunky all along.) Since the Prison that the Guardians encounter definitely looks like eliksni architecture (them semicircle doors tho), it's likely that the Reef used Wolf labor to refurbish the Prison.  
  
  
_"At the end of the wars, the Queen had played her way into the strongest position, and she had a collection of Fallen nobility and servitors she thought might be useful to her. Of course she thought so! She'd just used them against each other and won absolute control of the Reef, the Belt, and the House of Wolves. She wasn't about to just toss away her playing pieces._  
_She kept them frozen in her prison, the Prison of Elders, and she gave the keys to that prison to my buddy Variks, a Fallen who showed her loyalty. The Prison of Elders is a really curious thing. It holds creatures of enormous power. Not just Wolf nobility— all kinds of beasts, captured by Corsair expeditions or lured in by the Queen. And it holds them well. The Queen, she can do things I don't understand. There's a power behind her, or in her, that values that Prison." -- Cayde-6, overheard in a Tower lounge, Prison of Elders, The Reef grimoire card_  
  
  
(We hope you're all safe and holding on financially, mentally, and physically!)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever seen a punch-drunk kell before?
> 
> Content includes: eggs.

The resulting clutch is truly monstrous. Even Kaliks Major seems speechless by the time Skolas is done.

"<Two hundred and fifty-three,>" they eventually announce to Aksor, who is blinking owlishly at the glistening, translucent pile. Then he slowly turns his gaze down to the kell currently panting and leaning bonelessly against the back of his laying chair in the middle of the egg pit. Skolas is still glowing from the constant stream of ether being fed to him and his eggs. Aksor notes the expression of near-religious bliss painted across that bare, scarred face.

They are going to have their hands very full with organizing space for this unexpectedly enormous clutch.

It’s a good cycle later, while on strict orders to rest, that Skolas finally drifts into the meeting room with his datapad. He is shadowed by a high servitor whose flared plating indicates clear disapproval of this venture.

\--

Variks is in the middle of getting up to leave when Skolas strolls in.

He blinks, taking in the disapproving servitor and Skolas's heavy scent. "<Er. My kell. I'm afraid you missed the meeting.>"

\--

"<Oh,>" Skolas says. "<That's unfortunate.>"

He doesn't seem too concerned about the matter, however. In fact, he doesn't seem too concerned about anything at all, setting his datapad down for the data transfer.

\--

"<It was nothing terribly urgent,>" Variks says, brow creeping involuntarily up his face as he sends the note files over. It seems  _ this _ aspect of kellship agrees with Skolas.

\--

"<Mmm,>" Skolas hums. The laying hormones haven't entirely worn off.

"<Did it go well?>" he asks genially.

\--

"<...Yes,>" Variks says awkwardly. He is… not accustomed to a genial Skolas. "<My kell.>"

\--

"<Excellent.>" Scrolling through the data, Skolas smiles. And then makes a curious little sound as his shadowing servitor lifts him up telekinetically and starts floating him out the door.

"<Ah,>" he says, remarkably unperturbed by the turn of events. "<I should go. I think I'm in trouble.>"

\--

Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Oh, Machine, do not laugh at the kell and his servitor minder.

"<Of course, my kell,>" Variks says, perfectly dignified.

\--

Skolas turns that surprisingly gentle smile on Variks now, giving the scribe a vague wave before the doors slide shut behind them.

\--

And so, it is twice in one month that, because of Variks's kell--one of the most intimidating, incomprehensible, frustrating individuals he has ever known--Variks puts a hand over his face and laughs until he is breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia/headcanon time! Since we decided that the kells and archons unwisely concentrated all the egg production in themselves for political leverage, and yet the eliksni population seemingly wasn't _that_ low up until the events of Destiny 2, there must have been mitigating factors. First, we've headcanoned that there's extensive epigenetic tweaking to hike that egg production way, way up: more eggs released, more twinning within each egg, and inducing the eggs to be laid as prematurely as possible, so another batch can get started. While an unaugmented first gender might have a clutch of maybe twelve or so singleton eggs in six months, a House kell is popping out hundreds of eggs with two or three babies to an egg once a month. Their ether intake is _ridiculous._  
  
Second, even with that, it's still not a good idea to go all naked mole-rat on your population, and frankly, it's not really possible to support a population of millions with two egg layers. Therefore, it's a highly embarrassing secret when the occasional archon priest gets transitioned to first gender if egg production isn't high enough.  



	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Siege of Pallas comes to a close, no thanks to Weksis the Meek. Variks has some suggestions -- and is privy to even more observations.

The blockade of Pallas has lasted six months in all. Six months of tension. Six months of carefully encouraging and soothing Skolas; of placating Pirsis as she held tight the blockade; of Beltrik pulling double-duty negotiating with the Vestian representatives and running the alien Paladins around the Hildian asteroids. Six months of Grayor scouting oh-so-tentatively around the paths the alien diplomats take from Vesta, from the seat of power of the alien kell. Four months of the servitors trying to crack the coding of the aliens’ strange spy-machines, the Crows. (And hadn’t it been a stroke of luck that Variks had discerned their existence just from quick glimpses in surveillance footage.)

And now Variks is trying to avoid a headache as he reads the report of a preposterously charismatic dreg who had nearly enacted a stealth strike on the Pallas station. His followers had been just about to blow a hole in the Athens Hull when the Silent Fang had swooped down and killed half of the little fools.

Not good for negotiations, though the swift apprehension of their own soldiers has utility as a show of good faith. On another hand, they now know that the Athens Hull is a possible point of entry if things go awry. Useful.

\--

“<I can’t believe,>” Skolas mutters, covering his eyes. “<That we have to deal with this right now.>”

He’s recovered from the laying hormones, enough to be back to his usual, eternally bemused self. Which is either a blessing or a curse, depending on who’s asking.

\--

“<Parts of the fleet have been restless for some time, my kell,>” Variks says blandly. Particularly Pirsis’s fleet, he does not say.

\--

The dreg is in a cell to be disciplined later, but Skolas has to admire the sheer gall of it all.

“<At least Pirsis is entertained,>” he mutters as he scrolls, recalling the air of amusement that had hung over the baron during their debriefing.

\--

“<There is that,>” Variks says, allowing a touch of his own amusement to sneak into his voice. Perhaps they should engineer more violent diversions for their most bloodthirsty noble.

\--

If anything, Pirsis seemed almost fond of that dreg. And of course _she_ would be. Of _course_. Much as the subversion of her command had enraged her, Skolas could see the spark of belligerent joy in her eyes as she’d spoken of him.

Weksis, was it?

“<If we hadn’t been aiming for negotiations, this would have been a very clever move,>” Skolas admits, gently massaging away the tension between his eyes.

\--

“<It may be good to remember it,>” Variks agrees. “<Clever dreg.>”

\--

“<As it is, he is facing a double docking at the minimum.>” Leaning back in his seat, Skolas steeples his fingers together.

\--

“<Mm.>” Appropriate, for such insubordination. Then again, the fact that a dreg had such charisma and cunning as to attract a significant number of followers and launch a nearly-successful attack… it does suggest that someone was wrong to dock him in the first place.

\--

“<That isn’t a sound of approval,>” Skolas notes, voice peculiarly mild.

\--

Well, that tone didn’t sound disapproving, so... “<Merely wondering how an eliksni with such leadership skill ended up as a dreg, my kell.>”

\--

“<He failed the test when it mattered.>” It’s intended to be dismissive, but an odd note creeps into it that has Skolas frowning at his own tone. He continues anyway: “<If he’d put more effort into studying and training before his examination, he might have found himself in a far more respectable position.>”

\--

“<Perhaps,>” Variks agrees. Frankly, this matters little to him. But that undertone… his instincts tell him to dig deeper. “<And yet it remains that as he is now, he managed to rally a skiff’s worth of crew - some higher ranked than himself, at that - and pierce the Reef’s defenses so skillfully he nearly managed to collapse our diplomatic manipulations.>”

\--

“<If this was at all salvageable,>” Skolas mutters irately. “<I would order that he be promoted and trained. But as it is, I do not see how I can excuse such blatant disregard for his baroness’s command, especially for foolishness borne out of boredom.>”

\--

Curious, Variks thinks, appraising eyes fixed on Skolas. “<If so, my kell, one could simply keep him in containment until the incident is forgotten before releasing and training him.>”

\--

The weight of Variks’s regard is suddenly uncomfortable, and Skolas turns narrowed eyes to the scribe.

“<That is hardly appropriate.>”

\--

“<How so, my kell?>” Variks asks. He does not feel as endangered by Skolas’s regard as he used to, so he continues. “<Of course, one cannot be seen _rewarding_ insubordination, but smoothing over little hiccups is well within the bounds of pragmatism.>”

\--

“<Many would notice that he is not being immediately punished for a crime of such severity.>”

Peekis’s docking had happened in the immediate aftermath of his victory over Irxis, after all.

\--

“<Certainly,>” Variks shrugs. “<One of many considerations to be balanced. Though if played right, it could convey the message that you approve of skill and daring, so long as one follows the appropriate channels. Lest they end up worse than Weksis.>”

\--

Skolas can feel the headache growing, pressing up against the back of his eyes, but he refuses to rub them, choosing instead to just stare at Variks for a long second.

“<I would be inviting more of this ridiculous attention-seeking.>”

\--

“<Mm.>” Variks taps his fingers on his chair thoughtfully. “<There would have to be appropriate channels open for such favor-seeking, you are right.>”

\--

"<Wh->"

Variks is not... wrong, per se. But Skolas feels the need to disagree anyway.

“<How would that even work?>”

\--

Variks rests his chin on his hand, still keenly observing Skolas’s expressions. Curious, that Skolas is not actually shutting down this line of thought, yet still protesting, seemingly reflexively. Variks continues out of curiosity. “<Bounties, perhaps? I am sure I could think of more things given time, my kell, should you wish it.>”

\--

"<I->" 

There is no sound counterargument to this that isn’t born solely from his own temper, and Skolas finds himself at a loss for words. He scowls ferociously at Variks, struggling for what to say.

When nothing comes, he manages a reluctant, “<...Very well.>”

\--

Variks’s brow ticks a notch upward, but he does not acknowledge Skolas’s fluster otherwise. “<I shall send you some proposals, then,>” he replies.

\--

“<Thank you,>” Skolas utters stiffly, “<Scribe Variks.>”

And now his punishment for Weksis has gotten significantly more complicated. Hm.

\--

“<Of course, my kell.>”

Interesting indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Then Siege of Pallas. Year of cruelty. Held the line to rescue butchers, murderers, Servitor. Ends with Wolf fleet scattered.” -- Variks, the Loyal grimoire card_  
  
  
WHAAAAAT TWO CHAPTERS??? HELL YEAH  
  
In canon, the Siege of Pallas was a similar situation as here -- Mara didn't want to use the Harbingers since then she'd destroy Pallas, Pirsis didn't go all out because she wanted the Wolf prisoners back alive, Beltrik lured Paladins Rior and Zire into the Hildians, and Uldren used the campaign to launch an expedition to Jupiter -- with the additional mediator of Variks's influence causing Pirsis to be less destructive than she would have been. Obviously, in canon, there was no truce and Weksis's attack sort of succeeded, with Pirsis trying the exact same thing a little later. Unfortunately, it didn't fully work either time, and Drevis, Weksis, _and_ Pirsis ended up getting captured, detailed in the Maraid chapters 5 and 6.  
  
  
_"The Maraid, Book VIII, Chapter 5  
Abstract:  
The stalemate over Pallas was broken by, of all beings, a dreg. Ironically dubbed Weksis the Meek, the dreg led dozens of followers in an unsanctioned attack on Pallas. They managed to blast a hole in the Athens Hull, but were stopped soon after by Commander Hallam Fen. Weksis and the surviving followers were imprisoned alongside those they had come to save." -- WANTED: Weksis, the Meek grimoire card_  
  
_"Yeah, the 'Meek' bit? That's a joke. This Dreg led a brutal charge during the Siege of Pallas." —Petra, Wanted: Weksis, The Meek bounty_


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Siege of Pallas comes to an end. Skolas ponders the fallout for the now-freed Drevis.

The Siege of Pallas, the largest gathering of Wolfships since the Scatter, meets its end with words.

Stilted, aloof, and stiffly translated words, but words nonetheless.

For the first time in two years, they lift the jamming field around Pallas. The Wolves monitor every communication in- and out-bound, but they do nothing to stop it.

A Reefship bearing supplies is escorted through the blockade after extensive scanning to ensure that nothing and no one onboard was carrying any superweapons or had any power to create or summon them. The Wolves listen to the people of Pallas cheer over the comms, baring their teeth and doing nothing.

They begin the prisoner exchange: captured Awoken for the captured Wolves. The prisoners are kept in their cryo chambers, transported under watchful eyes by skiffs and Reef cargo haulers.

Before the return of Kaliks-4 and Mecher Orbiks-11, they negotiate a five-year armistice for Pallas. The Reef kell signs their contract on a thin piece of glimmer-cloth, transmatted to Wolves as a high-fidelity engram. Skolas gifts them their own contract, etched onto a solid steel block, forged by his very own hands, witnessed by major and archon and the remotely-watching Reef kell’s representative. Through slots in the tablet, they attach the seals of the Wolves’ ruling triune, woven onto blue cordage.

Once completed, it is transmatted to the Reef as a high-fidelity engram. Skolas merrily fantasizes it crushing an Awoken upon being decrypted.

The Reef and the Wolves exchange the last prisoners then: the Overseer of Amethyst and its assistant for Mecher Orbiks-11, Kaliks-4, and Baroness Drevis.

… Drevis. 

Onboard the Kaliks-Fel, Skolas watches as the skiff transporting her immediately folds away the moment the prisoners’ identities and safety are confirmed. The relief is almost enough to distract him from listening to the Reef representative’s twisted grasp of Eliksni, the broken words that had no right to slip from its ugly little mouth. The grammar is mostly correct, but the speaker had no machine to aid in translation - and obviously little to no experience speaking to any eliksni. Its voice was entirely unsuited to the speech. Flat, dull, unrefined, no hint of Wolves tongue’s colorful subvocalizations.

(Uldren Sov, [Queen]’ s/Kell’s Brother, is the translation under its screen. Skolas wonders at it: what a strange quality to use as an honorific. Was the kell who begot this ‘Mara’ so weak as to lay a clutch so pitifully small that being Mara’s sibling was a mark of significance? It seems awful... _limited. _Then again, is that so surprising for a species of heretical scavengers?)

“<The Wolves honor the armistice,>” Beltrik says through the projections, with all the heavy tones of an oath. Skolas closes his eyes, listening to his ketch’s engines powering up, preparing for a fold.

“<May this peace between our species last the eons.>”

\--

Unlikely, Variks thinks, sitting quietly at Skolas’s shoulder. But who knows? Perhaps a slow siege in all but name will be more in the Wolves’ favor.

Variks is honestly surprised that the negotiations went through. The Awoken must be truly low in population if they were so desperate to recover the prisoners. Perhaps their breeding pool is shallow? Something to consider. 

And Drevis. Her return will be… interesting after all this time. Variks wonders, watching Skolas, whether she will disapprove of her kell’s tolerance for him.

\--

“<May the cooperation between our kind bear us great wealth,>” the blue face on the screen agrees. Skolas watches it with renewed disgust written over his face before the connection flickers off.

The ketch hums around them, and he stares at the projections, watching the Wolves fleet disperse from the outer ring of the blockade inwards. His disgust is almost enough to override the all-consuming relief of having Drevis back in his clutches. 

Almost.

The coordinates of the skiff carrying her blinks at the edge of the screen, and Skolas leans into his backrest, hand gently cupped over his mask.

“<Tell me you’re strapped into your seat, scribe,>” he says softly. He has little energy left in him to deal with Variks’s eccentricities before a warp again.

\--

“<I am indeed, my kell,>” Variks says, eyes flicking over the screens and room alike. These next weeks are likely to be the trickiest of all. For once, Variks does not dread the challenge.

\--

“<Excellent.>” It’s meant to be wry, but it comes out peculiarly warm instead. Skolas reflects upon the tone and decides against trying to correct it.

“<It worked,>” he says instead, tipping his head to peer at Variks out of the corner of his eyes.

\--

Skolas is in a good mood. Very nice.

“<It did, my kell,>” Variks says, returning Skolas’s gaze with a small, approving smile.

\--

“<No promises on an actual peace negotiation, mind,>” Skolas says mildly. “<But Mecher Orbiks-11 and the surviving crew of the Kaliks-Tal have been returned to us. And we have found a potentially reliable tactic for squeezing the Reef aliens out of the rest of their captives.>”

He turns back to the screen, quiet once more.

It isn’t all glimmer and herealways, however. Drevis may have survived, but a baron outliving their ketch is always a messy affair -- and therein lies Skolas’s trepidation. A baron’s duty is to guard their ketch, with their life if necessary. Every ketch is a rare and irreplaceable piece of their people, these sacred ships that have shielded them and hidden them, carrying them from the reach of the Hive.

What, then, does one do with a baron that failed to protect one? Her ketch shattered and her fleet in tatters?

\--

“<They are not worthy of a real treaty,>” Variks dismisses. “<But this shall buy us time and space.>” 

There are a few things which could be causing that pensive expression on Skolas’s face, Variks muses. The promised retribution against the Awoken, now deferred -- for pragmatic reasons, yes, but it must smack of dishonor to the House hardliners. The return of the survivors of Kaliks-Tal -- inauspicious, for a baroness to be without a ketch.

\--

Noticing Variks’s pensive silence, Skolas hums before speaking: “<This will be difficult to clean up.>”

On multiple fronts.

\--

“<Not as difficult as it could be,>” Variks points out. “<Loss of materials has been minimal. The key resource now is morale, and House opinion.>”

\--

“<House opinion being the more complicated part.>”

The ship’s jump drive flings them into the fold, and the feed turns into a swirl of colors.

“<We’ve a baron without a ketch.>” And Skolas is so unbelievably relieved that Drevis is alive, that she is here and within reach, but. But. “<Now that we have saved her, we need to punish her.>”

\--

Variks spreads his hands. “<A solution presents itself, my kell. Simply do not grant her another ketch, yes?>”

\--

“<A simple solution,>” Skolas says quietly.

And a cruel one. However, is there any other choice?

\--

Hm.

“<Baroness Drevis’s particular duties do not require a ketch of her own,>” Variks notes.

\--

“<They do not.>” Watching the swirling colors pass them by, Skolas folds his hands. “<If anything, the ability to travel unconstrained would potentially be a boon for her. But it does bring up an unfortunate question for the nobles: what is a baron without their ketch?>”

\--

“<A baron in disgrace, my kell?>” Variks says tentatively. “<At least, it would appear as such. Perhaps an appropriately chastised baron, at that.>”

\--

“<They will accept it,>” Skolas agrees. “<Or I will make them.>”

\--

Variks inclines his head. “<If handled properly, public opinion will be led to the correct conclusion without too much effort, yes?>”

\--

“<I would much prefer unity after months of restraint in not flattening the Reef, yes.>”

\--

“<Of course, my kell,>” Variks says, tone meek. Perhaps he pushed that one a little too far.

\--

The Kaliks-Fel slips free of the fold, and Uranus slides into view. Skolas is silent for a moment, rubbing his thumb idly over his knuckles.

Then, softer, “<Thank you.>”

\--

“<...You are welcome, my kell,>” Variks replies, voice smooth, so smooth. Still these odd hesitations, missteps. Odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Skolas's most dreaded vassal led the Siege of Pallas, killed Paladin Imogen Rife with her own hand." —Petra, Wanted: Pirsis, Pallas-Bane item description_  
  
  
Lore time! Aren't we all glad that Variks is a smart cookie? In canon, the Siege of Pallas not only lost the Wolves at least a couple years of time, but lost them Baroness Drevis, Kaliks-4, _and_ Baroness Pirsis. That's a hell of a blow! Here, not only did they get Skolas's head of intelligence back, but also Mecher Orbiks-11! (You can imagine how pissed Mara is that the Wolves figured out she'd salvaged that servitor...)  
  
Also, the Maraid chapter 6 makes Pirsis sound super gay for Drevis and we are HERE for that shit.  
  
  
_"The Maraid, Book VIII, Chapter 6  
Abstract:  
Weksis' attack may have been unsuccessful, but it inspired another, deadlier assault. This time Pirsis, the Bane of Pallas herself led another strike, blasting through the same Athens Hull breach that Weksis had weakened in his assault.  
Pirsis' strike team managed to free Kaliks-4, but Paladin Imogen Rife cut them off outside Drevis' cell. Pirsis might have escaped, but she refused to retreat without Drevis. Paladin Rife destroyed Kaliks-4 to prevent the Wolves from recovering it, and eventually the Wolves were forced back—but not before Pirsis slew Paladin Rife with her own blade." -- WANTED: Pirsis, Pallas-Bane grimoire card_  



	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas welcomes Drevis home.

Aboard the Kaliks-Fel, Skolas rises slowly from his throne. He is wired through with nervous energy, a rattling, wretched thing that coils under every plate in his body.

He endures it. He pulls his shell together with a hard mental yank at the seams and sets his mandibles against his jaw, his shoulders square. He watches as the air above the courtroom’s floor flickers, flashes white, and solidifies into an achingly familiar shape. It takes all of his will not to rush forward and embrace it. 

“<High Baroness Drevis,>” he greets instead, and despite everything, despite the thousands of eyes upon him, physical and otherwise, Skolas cannot keep the wavering note in his voice hidden.

\--

Almost before the haze of transmat clears from her eyes, Drevis is lowering herself into a deep curtsey, lower arms pulled back, and spine bent nearly to the ground. She does not allow herself to look up.

“<My kell,>” she says, voice low and penitent.

\--

It is Peekis all over again, but Skolas finds his hands steadier when he unsheathes his sword. He points the tip of the blade at the floor and lets it rest against the metal between his boots. Not held at the ready, no intention of using it, only a gesture of ceremony, and perhaps that is why he feels just a little sliver of stability. 

“<You return to us disgraced. Without a ketch; with a tattered, broken fleet,>” he says in steady, basso, formal tones, his voice rigorously neutral. “<You are to be forever marked in the House’s records and never to be gifted ketch or fleet again.>”

\--

If anything, Drevis’s head dips just a little lower, shoulders slumping at the sound of Skolas’s saber drawn from its sheath.

This is as it should be. A ketch is life, light, history, and pride, and the narrow-eyed thrill of the hunt left her blind to danger. Due to her negligence, there is one less in the world.

It would have been proper for Skolas to smash the Pallas station into smithereens, with her and her crew aboard. And yet -- and yet, here she bows, limbs still shivering with the phantom cold of stasis, aboard a fleet which has laid siege to her prison for months. 

Silence is the best option.

\--

The arc blade stays unlit, and Skolas is glad, even if the phantom sizzle of electricity and burning flesh circles the back of his mind. The sight of Drevis bowed so deeply before him tightens every knot of tension under his lungs.

“<But we have fought to have you, Kaliks-4, and your crew returned to us. Fought long and hard,>” he continues, cannot help the softening of his words. “<You return whole, and we welcome you home with all of our arms. You will still lead our Silent Fang, and though diminished, though disgraced and barred eternally from commanding your own fleet, you will retain the title of high baroness. Do you understand the terms of your punishment, High Baroness Drevis?>”

\--

“<I do, my kell,>” Drevis says, and her voice is like crackling ice. Lenience. This is lenience, mercy for her, because Skolas loves her. She can feel his love in the thrum of his voice, the silence of his sword. “<I will not fail you again, my kell.>”

Unfamiliar, to kneel before a merciful throne.

\--

Inclining his head, Skolas draws in a quiet breath as screens flicker to life around him, surrounding him a shimmering circle.

“<Raise your eyes, High Baroness Drevis. Witness the consequence of your failure.>”

Kaliks Major fills one half of his awareness, a presence on the other side of the vacuum. Together they reach out into the House’s collective memory, pulling up all of Drevis’s records, her codes, the proof of her entire existence. Together, they mark her data red, burn into it the evidence of her failure, the loss of the Kaliks-Tal, the loss of her skiffs and all their crews, the loss of the House’s resources, and its people.

“<Remember always what has been sacrificed for you.>”

\--

Part of her bristles, snarls at the stark accounting of her disgrace before the court like a base creature with its soft underbelly exposed. These sniveling weaklings aren’t fit to see even her failures, she thinks, lifting her head to watch the indelible marking of her records. There are always losses in war, always. 

And yet -- by all rights, she should have been one of them, and by the grace of her kell, she is not.

“<I will carry it in my breath and in my blood, my kell,>” she whispers, just loud enough to reach the edges of the room.

* * *

He’s shaking, Skolas realizes, waiting in the silence of his chambers. He glares at his hands as if they were to blame for his current haphazard state. Then, stiffly, he curls them into fists and folds them firmly under his cloak. 

Drevis will be here soon. He is struck by a bone-deep need to pace, but he stifles it. Instead, he holds himself tall, distant, and he waits next to the guest’s table, pushing threads of patience into his limbs as he watches the door.

\--

Drevis takes longer to walk to Skolas’s chambers than she usually would.

She’s to be quartered in the barons’ guest chambers of the Kaliks-Fel -- as she will ever be, now that she will have no ketch to call her own, will only be housed at the discretion of other nobles. That is not the problem in itself; she is well used to guest quarters.

The problem is that she had imagined what it would be like, seeing Skolas for the first time in his full realization of kellhood, and it went nothing like this. The problem is that she allowed her ketch to be destroyed. The problem is that Skolas has lived months without her, time she lost through her own failures.

Enough. Drevis sets aside her fretting as she approaches Skolas’s door, sending a ping to him.

\--

The doors slide apart for her, already primed for her arrival.

From the middle of his sparsely decorated rooms, Skolas peers at her, backlit by the starscape spinning slowly by in the simulated windows of his chambers. He is limned in silver, the light from the asteroid field cast bright against a vast, glimmering vacuum, blue eyes glowing with indescribable emotion.

“<Drevis,>” he says, so soft it’s barely more than vibration.

\--

Drevis steps into the room, veins squeezing in her chest. Skolas’s silhouette is stark, striking -- imposing.

He loves her still, this she knows. But that does not mean he is not terribly angry with her.

“<My kell,>” she whispers, bobbing into a curtsey.

\--

Skolas the Rabid, Kell of House Wolves, Scourge of the Devils, Kings, and Winter, and the late Virixas’s most violent loyalist….

Stands and stares in utter silence.

Then he takes a step towards her. Then another, and another, until she is in arm’s reach and he gathers her into a deep, deep embrace, mask pressed to her forehead, all four arms curled around her, clutching her tightly to his chest.

“<_Drevis_,>” he says again, helplessly.

\--

The breath shudders out of Drevis’s lungs as she slumps into Skolas’s arms.

“<Skolas,>” she says, and it’s all bubbling up now: the stark, sudden terror of the pilot servitor screaming proximity alarms as they emerged from a jump straight into Bamberga’s path; the helplessness, floating disoriented in vacuum; the rage, captured by those filthy dead-souled things...

The deep ache of knowing she had failed her kell.

She clutches him tight and makes not a sound.

\--

“<_Machine_, you’re still so cold,>” Skolas exclaims, pulling his cape off and wrapping it around her as he gently nudges her towards his nest. It isn’t a particularly useful gesture: her suit will regulate temperature just fine, but... it does stave his worries off, if only a little.

“<By the Lights,>” he whispers, cupping her face. It’s been so long since he has gazed upon that beloved face. “< I’ve missed you so much.>”

\--

It has been longer for Skolas than it has for Drevis, sealed insensate in cryo as she was, and yet still she feels the sting of separation, now soothed. Skolas’s fretting -- she’s missed this. He’s done it so much less since becoming kell.

She goes where he nudges, holds his cape around her with a giddy squeeze of her lungs, closes her eyes as he holds her face in his broad hands. Broader, now. Softer, too; no recent wounds to mar the newly molted skin. “<Skolas,>” she whispers.

\--

On the nest, Skolas tugs Drevis onto his lap and curls around her in a protective wall, thighs folded against hers, arms curled around her shoulders and sides.

“< I’ve been waiting for so long,>” he whispers in turn, stroking the brow of her helmet.

\--

“<I am deeply sorry,>” Drevis says, voice finally able to thaw, “<To have kept you waiting.>”

Her eyes flutter with the gentle pressure of Skolas’s fingers. It’s odd, being physically dwarfed by Skolas. Not bad. Just unfamiliar.

\--

“<You have nothing to apologize for,>” Skolas murmurs, leaning down to press his forehead against hers, eyes half shuttering. “<Least of all, that.>”

Drevis is still so haggard from the cryo freeze, armor askew and coldly damp. Skolas hardly even cares except to worry, wiping the condensation from the tips of her helmet.

“<Would you like to shower? You can use my unit.>”

\--

“<I would,>” Drevis murmurs, nuzzling gently back. Warmth is slowly seeping back into her bones, tingling in her plating. Daring, she brings a hand up to cup Skolas’s jaw in return.

\--

“<My baroness.>” Skolas closes his eyes and leans into the touch, rumbling a low note deep within his chest.

“<I will show you to your quarters after this,>” he promises, softer even, somehow.

\--

“<Mm,>” Drevis sighs. She’d rather just stay here for a little longer, if she’s to be honest.

\--

“<Unless,>” and there is the barest playful note in his voice under all of the relief and worry and love, “<You have a preference otherwise?>”

\--

The touch of levity is what melts the last of the tension from Drevis’s shoulders. She hums, falsely dithering. “<Well, I don’t know, my kell.>”

\--

“<No?>” Skolas hums, smiling just a little. “<What if I asked? Would you stay?>”

\--

“< I’m sure that would only be proper, my kell,>” Drevis whispers, the sides of her claws stroking over the line of Skolas’s jaw.

\--

“<Drevis.>” Smiling so achingly bright, Skolas cups her hand, pressing his mask into her palm with a warm purr. “<Welcome home, my love.>”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _""Drevis led a strike of Silent Fang in the Raze of Amethyst, an attack which killed my sisters. Show her no mercy." —Petra  
\-- Wanted: Drevis, Wolf Baroness; Hunt Drevis, Wolf Baroness near the Cosmodrome's Forgotten Shore._  
  
  
Mara got real lucky in canon, knocking out Skolas's main gimmick so early in the fight! Fortunately for Petra here, all her sisters (and implied Techeun mothers) are still alive, even if a few might have been held hostage for a while.  
  
  
_Commanded by the fearsome Drevis, Wolf Baroness, the Silent Fang are a unit of elite stealth warriors and assassins. Instrumental in Skolas' rise to kellship among the Wolves, the Silent Fang also menaced the Queen during the Reef War. It was Drevis and the Silent Fang who razed Amethyst, and then tricked the Queen's Armada at the Battle of Iris. Though the Silent Fang suffered a serious blow when Drevis was finally thrown in the Prison of Elders after the Siege of Pallas, they continued to threaten the Queen's forces until the war's end. -- Grimoire: The Silent Fang_


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas loses his temper. Variks, for once, isn't intimidated.

“<The Siege of Pallas comes to its end,>” Skolas says, letting his voice carry over the crowd in attendance, over the vast branches of the House communications network. “<And today we welcome a new cycle with the surviving crew of the Kaliks-Tal returned. Today we greet the new cycle as Wolves, a little more whole.>”

It isn’t often, anymore, that Skolas gets to stand with Kaliks Major and Archon Aksor in the daily prayer of renewed cycles. The two egg-bearers being bounced from ship to ship to keep the Reef off their scents often meant they were projected into the prime’s chambers instead.

“<Though the quiet is tenuous and the Reef remains our foe more than our neighbor, for now, we forge ahead with some peace returned. May the Great Machine bless us all.>”

He dips his head and quietly steps aside for Aksor to take his place on the dais.

* * *

There is no return to true peace, of course, never fully for the eliksni, and never truly again for a House eternally scarred by the Scatter. In the months following the armistice, however, they settle slowly into something like… routine.

Skolas returns to the Kaliks-Fel and stays, this time. He endures the long-overdue meeting with Aksor about the design of new regalia, more appropriate for his station. He tasks Drevis with sending the Fangs out to the edges of Wolves territory to keep their eyes on the Reef and the Shore. He keeps Pirsis carefully occupied; he nudges Beltrik towards increasing House efficiency; he silently pines over Grayor’s absence.

And… he oversees the court: the petitions from the rabble; proposals and favors from the nobles. 

Today, Skolas sits in the meeting room, Lower Baron Jilksik across the table from him. Variks is, as ever, at his back, two steps behind his shoulder. Cocking a chitinous brow, Skolas carefully says: 

“<I don’t believe I entirely understand, my baron.>”

\--

Baron Jilksik bows in his seat, respectfully low but not so far as to be awkward. “<Forgive my obtuseness, my kell. I merely meant to ask about the administration of the auxiliary fleets.>”

\--

Something bristles under his plates, but Skolas reins it in. It is an important question. It is one he has put off for far too long, sorting through the tangle of politics and paperwork in the aftermath of the armistice.

Of course someone had brought it up sooner rather than later, and it is fair and reasonable that they had.

His temper thinks otherwise, however, even as Skolas tightens his leash on it hard enough to choke.

“<And you are volunteering for this administration?>” he clarifies, voice carefully, carefully neutral.

\--

“<If it would please you, my kell,>” Jilksik replies, and his tone is just a touch too eager for someone who ostensibly didn’t have that intention. 

Impolitic, Variks thinks dryly. After all this time with Skolas, he can sense the tension that foretells an explosion.

\--

Something simmers at the back of his throat, and Skolas breathes it in, tastes the seething smoke of his rage, and tries to choke it down. Ambition is not untoward, he tells himself.

_Scavenger_, is the burning word behind his teeth.

“<You believe yourself qualified for this?>” he asks.

\--

“<I have served the Wolf fleets faithfully for many years,>” Jilksik assures his kell. “<I believe strongly in the importance of prudence and good intelligence.>” 

Bad move, thinks Variks.

\--

The tabletop caves in like little more than foil under the weight of Skolas’s fist.

He’s on his feet, Skolas realizes distantly. He’s trapped Jilksik against the baron’s chair, hand braced against the top of the baron’s headrest.

“<If you have any prudence at all,>” he hisses. “<You will never bring this up to me again.>”

\--

Baron Jilksik clearly has some sense of self-preservation, because he’s shrunk back as far as possible in his chair and makes no effort to excuse himself. “<Of course, my kell,>” the baron squeaks out. “<I apologize deeply.>”

Everyone else at the table is similarly positioned, and even Variks couldn’t keep himself from jumping. It’s even odds, nowadays, whether those hints of temper will be smothered or will leap into full flame.

\--

It takes all his self-control for Skolas not to just toss Jilksik’s chair out the door, baron and all. Instead, he simply jerks the seat around to face the exit.

“<_Return to your duties!_>” he snaps, eyes blazing at the rest of the room’s occupants to make it clear the order applies to all.

\--

There’s a clatter as everyone spins out of their chairs, led by Jilksik, who sprints from the room as fast as dignity allows.

Variks wavers, before remaining where he is. More dangerous to move and draw Skolas’s attention at this moment.

Not to mention that his duty _is _here, at the kell’s side.

\--

Skolas gives into his destructive urges the moment the doors slide meekly shut behind the backs of the fleeing nobles, and he _slams_ the chair into the floor with a crunch and squeal of deforming metal. The fury abandons him in an instant, leaving him heaving with burdened breaths in the aftermath, standing in the silent room with his shoulders arched, cape askew, head held low like some kind of stalking, snarling beast.

He forces his breathing to slow, one breath at a time, lets the ether cool his tongue and quiet the screaming pyre in his skull. Slowly, he leans against the table, letting his hands flatten out over the smooth surface.

“<_Damn it._>”

\--

Variks quietly taps out the last of his notes and saves the changes. The tremor in his fingers is easily controlled; Skolas’s rage is clearly not directed at him, no matter how intimidating he looks, stooped as if about to pounce.

\--

The hint of movement out of the corner of his eyes draws his gaze to Variks. Clearly not expecting the scribe to still be there, Skolas draws himself up sharply, as if that could somehow hide his ragged composure.

“<You can leave,>” the kell says, but his anger refuses to fill the words he directs at the Variks, regardless of his intention to snap at the scribe. He stares, eyes glowing with rage… and poorly-smothered humiliation.

\--

Despite himself, Variks is oddly charmed by Skolas’s tenuous but ever-so-obvious grip on his temper. 

“<Unless my kell wishes solitude,>” Variks says gently, “<I am available for counsel.>” Risky. But perhaps...?

\--

“<Do as you wish,>” Skolas mutters, too frazzled for a more composed response. He reaches down and carefully pulls the chair up from the floor.

\--

Variks watches this, then comments blandly, “<Rather a misstep by the baron, yes?>”

\--

“<Virixas would have rewarded the ambition.>” Checking the chair for damage, Skolas refuses to let himself look at Variks.

\--

“<Indeed,>” Variks says, still watching Skolas intently. “<But _you _are kell, not Virixas.>”

\--

“<And that was not conduct becoming of a kell.>” He shifts the armrest up and wills his trembling hands to work doing this minor bit of repair. Nothing he personally needs to attend to but the distraction is desperately needed.

\--

“<It is well within the rights of a kell to show their displeasure with a subject,>” Variks notes mildly. Curious, that Skolas would speak of the proper conduct of a kell whilst doing a repair certainly below his station.

\--

"<It's not ->"

He doesn’t want to be that kind of kell. Not thoughtless and brash and selfish. 

But it’s not an appropriate thing to say, and so Skolas does not. Instead, he tests the armrest, struggling to gather his thoughts.

“<At least this saves me the trouble of writing down my displeasure with him.>”

\--

“<It does indeed,>” Variks says, with a touch of humor in his voice. “<It also obviates the need to discourage more jockeying for power in the near future, yes?>” 

Curious. So curious, Skolas’s focus on restraint. Not bad, certainly. But very interesting.

\--

“<There... is… that benefit,>” Skolas allows reluctantly, straightening up and finally, finally turning his wary stare onto Variks.

\--

It would probably be wiser to adopt a grave expression, to pretend all was as it always is. And yet, Variks cannot keep a small smile off of his face.

“<You have great loyalty from your barons, my kell,>” Variks adds. Much more than Virixas had.

\--

“<....>”

Something unreadable flashes over Skolas’s face. It takes all of his will not to turn away from that expression, somehow.

“<Naturally there is movement into the power vacuum left by Drevis,>” he points out.

\--

“<Certainly, certainly,>” Variks says. “<Have you given any thought to the matter?>”

\--

“<Well, it’s clearly not going to be Lower Baron Jilksik.>”

Which is to say: no. No, Skolas has not given it thought, and he’s trying to hide that fact.

“<I will have to begin looking through profiles for someone appropriate for the position.>”

\--

Variks chuckles, despite himself. “<Certainly not him.>” He pauses. “<Baroness Skriviks is well-credentialed, among others.>”

\--

“<Skriviks would be the most reasonable candidate. Her position is already established, and the expansion of her fleet is long overdue.>”

It’s just… uncomfortable, giving away Drevis’s fleet after the baroness had committed a lifetime to accruing that power.

\--

“<She has expressed an interesting in shipbuilding as well, for which she would require a larger fleet for decoys and defense.>” It hurts Skolas, Variks realizes, facing the necessity of Drevis’s punishment. Interesting.

\--

“<...Kaliks Major’s population projections do point to a need for replacement ketches,>” Skolas admits. The repairs on the damaged ketches are taking a long time, too. Only Yaliks’s ketch has been successfully salvaged.

\--

Variks nods encouragingly. Even in the most conservative of Kaliks Major’s projections -- the ones where the deformity rate of Skolas’s clutches is intolerably high -- the Wolves will be bursting their skiffs at the seams in twelve years. “<Not to mention,>” Variks says softly, “<A demotion is not permanent, yes?>”

\--

Skolas stops mid-turn, his fingers sitting on the edge of the crater he’d left in the tabletop.

There are these… little flashes he gets from Variks. These peculiar moments of familiarity, as if Variks knows him as a friend and not as a wary ally at best. The way he talks, the way he can pull conversation out of Skolas when he least wants to converse, the way he seems to see the things Skolas never meant to show.

He doesn’t know how he feels about it.

“<The armistice is benefiting us already,>” he says, just a little pointedly. “<We now have time to address the coming population boom.>”

\--

Variks nods, letting Skolas take his escape. “<Indeed, my kell. Your forethought is wise.>”

Encouraging, that Skolas does not direct his anger at Variks.

\--

“<_Your_ forethought.>”

Skolas stops himself at that, entirely unsure why he thought it necessary to correct Variks there. He huffs in annoyance -- at himself, at Variks, at Jilksik. All of it. Everything is annoying him right now.

“<Yours and Beltrik’s.>”

\--

Variks blinks. Well. 

“<Your acknowledgment does you credit and honors me greatly, my kell,>” Variks says, unable to mask the warm note in his voice. “<But it is you who mans the helm.>” Variks’s foresight means nothing without Skolas’s open ear, after all.

\--

"<Just ->"

Another huff, this one far too close to a sigh for Skolas to be happy with.

“<Just shut up,>” he says, setting his mantle correctly before moving towards the door. He commands it open, then waits for Variks, scowling ferociously all the while.

“<...Not forever, just for the moment.>”

\--

Variks nods as he stands, carefully swallowing a grin. Where is this levity, this irreverence coming from? Skolas is still dangerous, still volatile, still unpredictable in his temper.

And yet -- since that one time, he has not raised a hand against Variks.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _— The Tescan Valley Encounter —  
"A Ketch with unfamiliar markings hung low between two peaks. A rare sight. Fallen flagships weren’t known to linger so close to the surface, preferring constant motion, like sharks on the hunt.  
Skiffs circled below the Ketch as their crews prepared to plunder any treasures the facility held."  
\-- Rezyl Azzir - War Without End grimoire card_  
  
  
Naturally, a society whose entire existence has relied for centuries upon massive colony ships would have a deep respect for said ships, and would be leery of damaging them when it's unlikely that they can easily make more. Ketches are absolutely massive, probably the equivalent of a city. Plus, it seems that every ketch has to be piloted by a pilot servitor (aptly named), so if you lose a ketch, you've also lost a servitor. A baron who loses their ketch and doesn't die in the process is going to be in deep, deep trouble.  
  
  
_The Scatter  
“See the squadrons of Skiffs wrapping themselves in stealth, cold and transparent, knifing out invisible and brave? See the Ketches like broad blades, the bright thoughts of a Servitor guiding them to battle? See them turning, accelerating, waking up their jammers and their arc guns? All doomed. The Kell of Wolves will never make it to the Twilight Gap. The Kell of Wolves put all that strength in one place, and now the Queen of the Reef is coming to break it.” -- Ghost Fragment: Fallen 4 grimoire card_  
  
_""Pilots once mapped the stars. Skolas turned them into weapons."  
Pilot Servitors were not typically utilized as combatants in Fallen battle plans. Their purpose was manning the flight of various Fallen ships, from crew transports to massive war-barges.  
During the Reef Wars, however, Skolas crafted brutal new tactics to inflict maximum destruction upon the Awoken, including suicide attacks led by Pilot Servitors." -- Pilot Servitor grimoire card_  
  
_"ARENA DESIGNATION: The Drifter, LOCATION: Foundling's Gyre, The Reef  
Hive incursions in Reef space are rare, but as with all wounds the Hive inflict, their effects linger.  
“The Drifter” is a Ketch that faced such an infraction. The attack rendered its Servitor inoperable, overwhelming all self-repair subroutines, and so what remains has quietly been added to the graveyard encircling the Reef." -- The Drifter grimoire card_


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas meets his clutch.

The hatchlings are small and pale, so pale they actually seem to glow in the ether. Their skins and shells are translucent enough that he can see their little bones and organs, their tiny eyes glowing beneath the thin skin of their still-developing eyelids. Still a month away from their first molt, they sleep huddled in piles inside covered ether tanks, exhausted from their hatching. Skolas tries to keep his distance. 

And his composure.

It feels like his lungs have swollen up until the pressure within his chest becomes painful as he watches the splicers and servitors transfer the fresh hatchlings out of the egg incubation chambers. Between chamber and tank, they receive a biomesh chip at the base of their neck, their ID codes logged into the system. Sometimes the little ones chirrup in quiet protest, and it takes all of Skolas’s will not to fuss and coo over them.

Instead, he simply stands stiffly with his hands folded behind his back. Oversees. Lets the caretakers do their jobs without getting in their way.

\--

Variks watches the egg-soft newborns from his usual place at Skolas’s side. Archons and priests do not partner with scribes, and so most of the infants Variks has seen in the past have been the tithe-children given to Judgment as part of the House accords, past their first molt with eyes open and shells beginning to harden. By the time Variks had become a full scribe, those tithes were already becoming less common. And for the past year or so, Archon Aksor had put a halt to the development of new clutches, ordering them kept in cryo during the most precarious parts of the war.

However, he also watches Skolas, with the keen eye of someone who has become increasingly familiar with his advisee. And to Variks’s eyes, Skolas is so pent-up he’s practically vibrating. 

Variks smiles to himself. Encouraging, that Skolas is not indifferent to the more mundane logistics of the House.

“<A beautiful clutch, my kell,>” Variks says, voice pitched for only Skolas’s ears.

\--

“<I’ve never been this close to them before,>” Skolas remarks, watching a splicer gently coax a hatchling into letting go of their finger.

He’d never seen a hatchling at all before his rise to high captaincy, so preciously were they kept. Military-track eliksni could go their whole lives only knowing infants through images and second-hand accounts from priests and splicers.

\--

“<No?>” Variks supposes that makes sense, though he’s always debated the wisdom of keeping children so demarcated from the general population. Yes, a valuable resource ought to be strictly protected, but surely it was not good for morale and social development. “<Well, now you can be as close as you like, yes?>”

\--

“<Hah.>” Shaking his head, Skolas curls his hands into fists against his back. “<I don’t think that would be appropriate.>”

\--

A pause. Variks raises a brow. “<How so?>”

\--

“<It would give the children very strange ideas of a kell’s duties,>” Skolas points out. “<And it would be difficult for me to keep an appropriate distance.>”

That’s something he has enough trouble with as it is, and that’s with adults, not hatchlings so small they’re barely the size of his thumb.

\--

Variks frowns. That’s a potential concern, yes, but... what is this, some effort by Skolas to curb his tendency towards favoritism? “<They’re hardly going to remember seeing you as infants, my kell.>”

Yes, many kells do not have parental instincts. Many archons do not either. But some certainly do, Skolas seemingly included, and it isn’t as if interaction with their brood is against protocol. It would merely be impolite if Skolas got in the way.

\--

“<It isn’t only the infants I set an example for.>” 

Unhappy chirps fill up the room as a splicer pulls a hatchling out of their comfortable sleeping pile. Skolas can’t help the tiniest sympathetic smile. 

“<Besides, they are not mine to decide what to do with: they belong to the House. As all Wolves do.>”

\--

...Hm.

“<The House is yours if it is anyone’s,>” Variks reminds him, noting the uncharacteristically gentle smile on Skolas’s face. “<You stand at the helm. And why should a priest disapprove of a kell taking a personal interest in their work?>”

\--

Catching Variks watching him out of the corner of his eyes, Skolas scowls and draws himself up, his smile vanishing like so much smoke.

“<I don’t see how harassing the priests over something so trivial is in any way respectable -- or productive,>” he says. “<I have more important things to do. Things that would guarantee the safety and health of these infants far better than any interaction with them on my part.>”

“<Now, let us get out of the way,>” He finishes brusquely, before turning to leave. “<Archon Aksor will oversee the rest.>”

\--

Variks does not move to follow. “<Your dedication is commendable, my kell.>”

Something interesting is going on with Skolas, and Variks thinks it safe enough to investigate.

\--

The lack of familiar footfalls behind him stops Skolas for reasons he can’t entirely discern. Casting a withering look over his shoulder at Variks, he remarks dryly, “<Or stay. Do as you wish.>”

\--

Variks tilts his head to the side, returning Skolas’s gaze with a measuring one. “<Do you disapprove of the clutch, my kell? Of the hatchlings?>” Skolas clearly doesn’t, but Variks wishes to draw him into a discussion.

\--

“<No,>” Skolas answers simply and stubbornly refuses to expand on the matter.

\--

Variks’s brow creeps higher. “<Forgive my confusion then, my kell. There is nothing urgent on your schedule to demand your attention, yet you seem anxious to be away, yes?>”

\--

“<I’m hardly suited to be around infants,>” the kell counters blandly, then adds, “<_And_ I have paperwork to do.>”

\--

Variks chuckles. “<Hardly suited? Skolas, you _made_ those hatchlings.>”

\--

“<Creation and management are two entirely different areas of expertise.>” Where in the stars is Variks going with this?

\--

“<Of course, of course.>” Variks nods peaceably. “<I am simply curious as to what about the hatchlings is… ah, ‘trivial’, yes?>”

\--

“<Stop twisting my words and just tell me what you want,>” Skolas says, finally at the end of his patience.

\--

“<My kell, I don’t know what you mean,>” Variks says, eyes wide. “<Twisting your words?>”

\--

“<Fine!>” he snaps in exasperation. “<_Fine_, I’ll do whatever you want so long as you stop doing that!>”

\--

Variks doesn’t quite manage to stifle a snort. Dangerous, yes, but oddly amusing. “<My kell, truly, I only wish to know why you are leaving so early when you have a clear interest in the clutch.>”

\--

“<What part of my reputation makes you think I’m suited to be anywhere near them?>” Skolas gripes, folding all four arms.

\--

Interesting. “<Are you concerned that it would damage your ferocious reputation, then, my kell?>”

\--

Despite himself, Skolas drags a thoroughly irritated breath through his teeth, palming his face. “<You’re not going to drop this until I go over there, are you?>”

\--

Variks dares to move one small step closer, looking up at Skolas. “<My kell. Truly. What is the danger here?>”

\--

“<That _I_,>” Skolas stares Variks down, gesturing to himself, then towards the hatchlings, “<Hurt _them_.>”

\--

Variks tuts, struggling to keep a smile off of his face. How surprisingly… gentle. “<My kell, I am sure you have enough fine motor control to avoid that. Archon Aksor certainly does. Why, the width of your hands would be quite helpful in holding one safely, if you so chose, yes?>”

\--

“<Have you forgotten my epithet?>” Skolas quizzes, intending to display bemusement. But his massive hands curl into fists against the inside of his elbows, and he turns away from Variks, bristling.

\--

“<You have not threatened me in some time, my kell,>” Variks says, a touch of irony in his voice as he watches the tension coil in Skolas’s hands. “<I should think the hatchlings are an even less acceptable target, yes?>”

Strange. Variks would not have guessed that Skolas had such a perspective towards his temper -- but no, he should have guessed. After all, hasn’t he seen Skolas visibly swallow his anger twelve times for every explosion he lets loose?

\--

“<So what is it you’re proposing, then?>” Skolas asks unhappily. "<A test?>"

\--

“<Nothing so dire, my kell,>” Variks says, trying not to sound amused. “<I’m sure the priests would appreciate your interest, yes?>”

\--

“<....>” 

The narrowed look he gives Variks fades into something unreadable when Skolas turns his gaze back toward the hatchlings and their soft chirps and peeps.

\--

“<They won’t bite,>” Variks jokes, taking one step back.

\--

“<Don’t be surprised if I drop one,>” Skolas mutters, but he’s slowly unfolding his arms, shifting his weight to follow.

\--

“<I will be very surprised,>” Variks assures Skolas, and moves back into the room proper.

The priest managing the closest incubator looks up as Variks approaches.

“<High Priest Joskis, greetings,>” Variks says, cordial yet friendly. “<An excellent clutch; I commend you and your compatriots’ efforts.>”

\--

Joskis pauses in the middle of weighing a little hatchling and smiles curiously at Variks. Then, even more curiously at Skolas, who had come to a stop a few steps away, hands folded under his coat and the very image of aloof regality.

“<Kell Skolas. Scribe Variks,>” they greet with a dip of their head. “<Thank you for your kind words. We have been truly blessed.>”

\--

“<Indeed,>” Variks says, smiling at Joskis and then, because he cannot resist, at the hatchling. The tiny thing is chirping and trying to cling to Joskis’s hand. “<Excellent tidings, I would say, and a credit to your House.>”

\--

“<Thank you, Scribe Variks,>” Joskis dips their head again: bowing properly with a handful of hatchling is a little tricky. “<What brings you over to the weighing station, if I might ask?>”

\--

“<Ah, a whim on my part, if I’m to be honest,>” Variks chuckles, as if self-deprecating. “<It has been some time since I helped to raise hatchlings.>” He glances up at Skolas. “<Though, I do believe the kell wishes to be shown a few of the clutch?>”

\--

“<Well!>” Joskis says, brightening in obvious delight, peering at Skolas. “<It would be no trouble at all!>”

\--

“<Excellent,>” Variks says and looks at Skolas expectantly.

\--

Skolas glances between the two of them -- Variks’s calmly expectant face and Joskis’s blindingly brilliant smile -- and briefly contemplates making a run for it.

...Unfortunately, he has his pride.

“<Shall I bring more over, Kell Skolas?>” Joskis asks when the kell strides over, that impossibly bright smile brightening even further.

“<No,>” Skolas says, just a little too quickly. “<No, I am happy with just this.>”

\--

“<You are wise, my kell,>” Variks says, smiling beatifically.

\--

If Joskis notices the split-second flash of indignation across Skolas’s face, they have the grace not to acknowledge it.

“<Kell Skolas,>” Joskis begins with another deep bow of their head. Then to Variks, “<Scribe Variks. I have all the data we’ve gathered so far about this clutch, and it is absolutely _astounding!_ Would you like for me to go through it?>”

\--

“<I would very much enjoy that,>” Variks says, grinning at the little scrap of life in Joskis’s hands. “<Of course, I cannot speak for my kell.>”

\--

“<Proceed,>” Skolas says, because it’s all he can manage right now without entirely losing his composure. He can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the pale little bundle chirping drowsily in the priest’s arms.

Joskis’s smile becomes near incandescent.

“<Kell Skolas,>” they say before leaning back so that they could present the little bit curled up in the crook of their arm. “<Out of the two hundred and fifty-three eggs in the clutch, on average about three to five infants have hatched per egg. So far, we’ve counted nine hundred and seventy hatchlings! All of them are in stunning health and exactly within the expected weight range. Kell Skolas, I must congratulate you again on this beautiful clutch!>”

Skolas works his mandibles helplessly for a second before pushing out a gentle, “<Thank you, High Priest Joskis.>”

\--

“<That is an astounding yield,>” Variks says, blinking. “<Truly superb.>”

And at such a young age too, and so soon after transition. In Variks’s experience, it usually takes about half a dozen years of medical tweaking to get these kinds of yields, and Skolas popped this one out on his first go. Very promising.

“<Their responsiveness seems quite high,>” Variks adds, attention split between the child and Skolas’s amusing attempts to maintain his composure. Some newborns Variks has seen have been positively sluggish from lack of resources in the egg, yet this one is chirping up a storm.

\--

“<Oh, I haven’t heard this much annoyed chirping in years!>” Joskis exclaims, grinning brilliantly. “<We don’t usually get more than unhappy glares with the occasional peep, but almost all of the little ones I’ve been handling have been telling us off!>”

\--

“<Clearly they have the fighting spirit of their kell,>” Variks says with a straight face.

\--

“<A proud inheritance!>” The priest agrees.

Clearing his throat, Skolas, who has been silently enamored by the sight of tiny little claws digging into Joskis’s sleeve, asks, “<Is it not typical? For them to be vocal?>”

\--

“<Not immediately after hatching,>” Variks says absently, similarly distracted. “<Many are too exhausted by the process, and lack the robustness to protest.>”

...Though perhaps he should have let the high priest respond. Variks clears his throat. “<Of course, I cannot match your expertise, High Priest Joskis.>”

\--

Joskis doesn’t seem to mind in the _least _and excitedly adds on, “<Yes! They’re typically sleeping it off and recouping their energy from the rich ether mix we pump into the tanks. Usually, it’s about three cycles before we start getting vocalizations at all.>”

Then, realizing that both of their audience members are staring at the hatchling, Joskis grins, just a little slyly. “<Would either of you like to try holding this one?>”

\--

Variks demurs, “<Oh, I would be honored, but I could not possibly take precedent, High Priest.>” He does not look at Skolas, much as he wants to.

Variks has never been terribly engrossed by hatchlings that aren’t of Judgment. Perhaps this is a manifestation of homesickness. Or maybe he’s just getting sappy in his middle age.

\--

Starting, Skolas casts Variks a look of surprise.

"<Kell Skolas?>" Josksis says, smiling, drawing Skolas’s attention back onto them. 

“<I’ve... never held a hatchling before,>” he says quickly, holding his hands up. “<And I’ve grown so large now I’m not sure I trust myself with something so small.>”

\--

<Archon Aksor seems to do well,>” Variks says blandly. “<And you are a fast learner, my kell.>” That… is not always true, but still. If it helps in this situation, it can’t hurt to say it. “<Surely you will pick it up quickly; there is nothing to it.>”

\--

“<I can show you if you so wish, Kell Skolas,>” Joskis offers brightly.

Again, Skolas glances between Variks and Joskis, feeling just a little trapped. However, when his eyes fall back to the tiny bundle of joy, now dozing quietly in the priest’s arms, whatever pitiable façade of control he’s held onto until now crumbles away into a pile of fine dust.

“<Please,>” he murmurs softly, and Joskis just about blinds the whole room from smiling so hard. 

“<Allow me to demonstrate.>” Carefully, Joskis shifts their grip, gently cupping the little body in two hands. “<If anything, your size benefits you. You will want to keep them well-supported, like so, and you need only one hand for that.>”

\--

There’s no reason for anything to go wrong, but Skolas’s anxiety is rubbing off on Variks. He’s getting the sense that if the slightest thing goes less than optimally, Skolas will be scared off entirely.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Variks soothingly adds, “<You will find it quite intuitive, I am sure. Infants are very clingy.>”

\--

Pulse hammering in his skull, Skolas slowly, tentatively reaches a hand out, cupping it gently so that there is a supportive dip in the middle of his palm. 

“<Like this?>” he asks.

“<_Exactly_ like that, Kell Skolas,>” Joskis praises and then begins the delicate process of peeling little claws out of his arm before slowly raising the hatchling up with two hands. “<Just hold that pose.>”

The baby chirps most grumpily at the gentle manhandling but quiets the moment Joskis slides them into Skolas’s hand. Rendered utterly speechless and aching at the small, warm featherweight, Skolas watches as the tiny thing curls all six limbs around his thumb and buries an impossibly small face into his palm.

\--

Bless Joskis. If the fellow weren’t already a high priest, Variks would be doing his damnedest to pull whatever strings he could to get them promoted.

Skolas’s attention is so clearly fixated on the tiny creature nestled in his palm that Variks takes a moment to share a commiserating smile with Joskis himself.

“<Ah,>” says Variks softly, “<It has taken right to you, my kell. You see? You are a natural.>”

\--

Frozen on the spot, Skolas feels a sudden, overwhelming terror that he might drop the child, or hurt it somehow, some way. With the utmost care, he draws his arm back, tucks it against his chest, loosely blocks off the edge of his palm with another.

“<They’re so small,>” he whispers, and he can’t seem to help the wobbling note that creeps into his tones.

\--

...Is Skolas getting choked up?

Variks blinks very slowly to mask his incredulous grin. “<A good size, believe me, my kell,>” Variks says, deciding it’s merciful to be oblivious here.

Skolas isn’t showing a hint of the carelessness Variks has sometimes seen in splicers or young Judgment members. Frankly, given how big Skolas’s hand is, it’s even a bit excessive. Curious. Curious.

\--

Joskis’s eyes are just about sparkling. Fortunately, they still have the presence of mind to let Skolas have his moment, and they tactfully nod in agreement with Variks.

“<Four hundred and thirty grams, Kell Skolas,>” he offers. “<Rather weighty for their age, really.>” Then, turning to Variks with a mildly curious expression, the priest asks, “<You seem very familiar with hatchlings, Scribe Variks. You mentioned that you worked with them before?>”

\--

Variks’s expression remains blandly pleasant. “<I have, High Priest Joskis,>” Variks says, and his voice is even and light. “<You would not know this,>” because Virixas destroyed relations between our Houses, “<But House Judgment scribes raise our tithed hatchlings communally since we have no splicers.>”

It has been too long since the last tithed hatchling. Too long. It was not Virixas alone who spurned Judgment.

\--

“<I learn something new every day,>” Joskis murmurs, tapping their chin in thought. “<How fascinating! I suppose it makes sense when a House is so small.>”

\--

“<It is very good for fostering attachment,>” Variks smiles. “<Your curiosity does you credit, High Priest Joskis.>”

Quality over quantity, of course.

\--

“<Thank you, Scribe Variks,>” Joskis says, bobbing briefly in gratitude. “<I only wish to expand my knowledge, especially with regards to the care of these many little gifts.>”

\--

“<Of course,>” Variks says. “<Any deformities? They seem quite robust.>”

\--

“<Nothing unusual for the numbers,>” Joskis answers. “<So far only one logged with a missing eye, another with a missing finger. We suspect a hatching accident for the latter, however.>”

\--

“<Ah,>” Variks nods. These things do happen quite easily in hatching, as the infants are so soft. That’s a remarkably low incidence of deformity in a clutch of nearly a thousand.

Variks subtly turns back to see how Skolas is doing.

\--

“<There will likely be more once we have logged all of them into the system, but it’s absolutely stunning to see such a healthy clutch,>” Joskis continues merrily.

Variks will find Skolas staring at the little infant in his hand with an oddly closed expression. One that tightens when the hatchling peeps.

\--

Hm.

“<Ah, but we are keeping you from your duties,>” Variks says. “<Is there a side room we could use?>”

\--

“<Of course,>” Joskis says, glancing at Skolas again and noticing the stiffly blank expression on the kell’s face. “<Of course! Room three is on the right there, Scribe Variks. The room is full, and the babies have all been registered: it will be quiet.>”

\--

“<Excellent, thank you, High Priest Joskis,>” Variks says, starting to meander toward the room. “<Shall my kell call if he needs anything?>”

\--

“<Yes,>” Skolas says in the smallest voice, focusing on putting one foot in front of another, trailing after Variks. “<I will do that.>”

“<Kell Skolas. Scribe Variks.>” Joskis bows and watches them go with an air of curiosity. “<That child is already registered. Just put them into one of the tanks when you are done.>”

\--

“<Of course, of course,>” Variks says, opening the door to room three and hustling in as quietly as he can.

As it turns out, the quiet was mostly unnecessary, as most of the newborns in the ether tanks are awake and blindly exploring their environments, bumping into the walls and each other, tiny limbs clinging to tiny limbs.

\--

Skolas trails in closely after him, a little less gracefully, a little less confidently. It feels like his world is falling apart. The sight of a roomful of hatchlings slows him to a stop just over the threshold, the doors sliding shut behind him.

Oh.

“<Variks,>” he says very, very quietly.

\--

Variks signals the door to close, then turns to look warily at Skolas. “<Yes, my kell?>”

\--

He doesn’t answer. There’s just the barest wisp of ether rising from Skolas’s eyes, and he blinks hard. Once. Twice. Ducks his head and then slowly sinks to the floor.

\--

Variks steps out of the way of the descending kell. “<Ah. My kell?>”

\--

“<I saw them dead,>” Skolas whispers, his shoulders shaking. “<So many little bodies. We broke down the door too late, and all the atmosphere had drained before we could reach them.>”

\--

Variks stops in his tracks, mind racing to identify what Skolas is talking about.

...Oh. “<The Scatter?>” Variks says gently, not daring to move closer.

(This is one aspect of his role that... well, Skolas has not been particularly forthcoming to him.)

\--

“<It’s funny, isn’t it,>” Skolas whispers as the stream of ether from his eyes starts forming a wispy pool on the ceiling. “<How fast a House can be brought to its knees. I thought I’d gotten used to death, I thought I’d known it so closely as to consider it a companion. I was so mistaken.>”

\--

Variks dares a step closer; standing, he’s nearly equal in height to Skolas kneeling. An ever so gentle hand is laid on Skolas’s shoulder. "<How so?>" He asks, voice quiet.

Internally, Variks must admit he’s reeling a little. Skolas, grieving, conscientious... he almost doesn’t want to let himself believe it. It seems too outlandish, too unbelievable to hope for. Yet the evidence is kneeling before him, weeping over a child.

\--

Turning ether-hazy eyes on Variks, Skolas drags in deep, shaking breaths, trying to muffle the agonized pull of air into his lungs.

“<Why does _this --_>” A hitch and Skolas has to regather himself, staring at Variks like the scribe is holding a blade to him, not merely touching his shoulder. “<Why does this always happen around _you?_>”

\--

“<Well, my kell,>” Variks says, a note of gentle humor in his voice, “<I am quite good at my job.>” Though, Variks isn’t sure he can take credit for _this_ unexpected disclosure.

\--

Another helpless sob and Skolas closes his eyes again, voice cracking around a swell of grief.

“<Why -- _why_ did I let you talk me into this?>”

\--

“<If you will forgive me for saying so, my kell,>” Variks says, “<I think you needed this.>” He smiles down at the little hatchling still curled around Skolas’s thumb. “<To see what you’ve accomplished.>”

\--

Foggy gaze following Variks’s, Skolas stares down at the little scrap of life in his hand, and he cries. Cries with wretched, wracking, grief-stricken sobs that he’s never allowed himself to make in front of anyone else, feeling an immeasurable sorrow hollow out his lungs.

\--

Of all the things Variks expected to happen, Skolas dissolving into tears most definitely wasn’t on the list. Not to say that he’s displeased, of course; this signifies real progress, real potential for disclosure and confidence.

Variks hums, voice low, hand still resting on Skolas’s shoulder.

\--

It takes a small eon for Skolas to finally quiet, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by the gentle peeps of curious hatchlings. He’s sagging by the end of it, head bowed in humiliation, all four hands cupped around the infant held carefully against his chest.

“<_Damn_ you,>” he rasps, so quiet it could easily be dismissed as another ragged breath.

\--

“<I feel I should be flattered, my kell,>” Variks says, patting him on the pauldron. “<Would you like me to bring you a few more hatchlings?>”

\--

“<Variks,>” Skolas croaks, freeing a hand to wipe the ether residue from around his eyes. There is a headache behind his brows, and it’s growing by the second.

\--

“<I shall take that as a yes,>” Variks says, feeling oddly bold, and leans his staff on the wall before going over to one of the incubators.

“<Hello, little ones,>” Variks says, carefully pushing his hands through the airlock flaps. The tiny things chirp and fumble over each other, and three of them latch onto his fingers. Their skin is impossibly soft.

\--

“<At least bring me a cloth,>” Skolas relents, focusing on trying to even his breathing.

\--

“<Of course, my kell,>” Variks says agreeably, slowly pulling his cupped hands out of the incubator and turning around. His one free hand snags a handkerchief from his belt.

\--

Exhaling slowly, Skolas sits back onto his heels, reaching up to unlatch his mask, bypassing the inlets that would normally shut off the ether flow upon removal.

“<They’re so small,>” he says quietly.

\--

“<Indeed, my kell,>” Variks says. One of the hatchlings is trying to climb his upper arm, and he has to corral it down with his lower.

\--

“<And you seem so comfortable around them,>” Skolas remarks a tad enviously, watching as Variks gently directs the clumsy clambering.

\--

“<As I said, my kell,>” Variks says, smiling at one clinging tenaciously to his thumb, “<Judgment has no splicers. We raise our tithed children between ourselves.>”

\--

Holding his mask over the little one in his hand, he frowns at Variks.

“<Have you ever raised a tithed Wolves?>”

\--

Variks pauses and looks up at Skolas.

“<The House of Wolves has not tithed any children to Judgment in my adulthood, my kell,>” he says neutrally.

\--

Silence. Eyes still stinging from his tears, Skolas peers at Variks, his bared face lit by the gentle glow of ether. His scars are fading, smoothed out by his transition and a new life of relative seclusion.

“<I see.>”

\--

He’s so young, Variks thinks abruptly. The myriad of scars of a boarding-captain are being erased from Skolas’s plating with every molt, leaving behind a terribly youthful face. Not even a third Variks’s age. Startlingly naïve, for a kell.

“<Do you, my kell.>”

\--

Holding his hand up for the hatchlings, Skolas’s expression turns pensive.

“<Why?>” he asks with a note of confusion. “<I know you had a relation with Fikrul, but Virixas’s shunning of Judgment seems to have come about before that.>”

\--

Variks works his mouth under his mask as he gently, so gently encourages the hatchlings to toddle onto Skolas’s hands, flattening the edges of his palms against Skolas’s much larger one.

“<Yes, there you go,>” Variks murmurs, nudging the newborns with the sides of his thumbs. “<His hands are much warmer and roomier than mine, yes?>”

One by one, the sightless babies unfurl and fumble down the slope of Variks’s hands, seeking Skolas’s heat and the sleepy chirping of the one already in Skolas’s hands. Variks smiles at the sensation of tiny fingers and toes over his palms, letting a lower hand stroke so gently across the small back of one that’s chosen Skolas’s finger as an anchor.

How does he answer Skolas?

\--

The gentle pressure of Variks’s cooler hand against his is unexpectedly pleasant. Skolas carefully ignores it, keeping still as he watches the little bits tumble onto his hand.

Despite himself, despite the lack of answer from the scribe, despite the aching soreness in his eyes, he smiles helplessly at the sight of it. They’re so uncoordinated and so very, very clumsy, but it’s charming. Not a weakness like it would become when they’ve grown, merely a sign of how utterly new to the world they all are.

\--

Variks watches the tiny beings and misses his trainees so desperately his chest hurts.

Perhaps, given that Skolas has been so forthcoming (accidentally or not), and given that Skolas seems so generally allergic to the concept… Yes, perhaps Skolas views disclosure as a weakness. It would explain many things. If so, it means he does not implicitly trust Variks to guard his secrets. Insulting, but it is what it is. In that case, to build on this unexpected progress… perhaps Variks should disclose in return. 

“<Virixas’s scribe before me died before they could fully debrief me,>” Variks says, and feels a touch of pride at how even his voice sounds. “<I have no solid answers as to why Virixas would… disapprove of my House.>” Variks can guess. But he does not lie when he says he doesn’t know for sure.

\--

“<...I do not have Virixas’s complete clearance,>” Skolas says. It is not common knowledge, but it is not a secret either: the admission of it comes with no guilt. “<Many of the records of Virixas’s reign remains inaccessible to me, even discounting the loss of data from the Scatter.>”

“<There is nothing about you. There is nothing about the scribes of House Judgment. There is only the accord and its related documents.>”

\--

Variks hums thoughtfully. They should work on that. “<Well. Let us just say that I am unsurprised, yes?>”

Two of the babies bump into each other and start to squall. It would be too forward to reach into Skolas’s hands to soothe them, but Variks still has the impulse.

\--

“<And why is that?>” Skolas asks, although his wariness is tempered somewhat by the cries rising from his hand. Very, very gingerly, with the utmost cautious care, he reaches down to try and soothe the little ones, stroking over the delicate, urticating hair covering their glowing little bodies.

\--

Variks smiles at the little things despite his wariness at the turn of conversation. “<The late kell was not the sort to keep things he considered useless to himself, yes?>”

\--

Skolas’s eyes narrow, but... he offers Variks no denial. Something else flashes over his face instead, but it is there and gone again before it could settle properly into an expression.

The squalling is getting louder, unfortunately, which distracts Skolas from anything he might have planned to say.

“<Ah,>” he says, just a little distressed himself, trying with some futility to comfort them with more impossibly gentle petting. “<I don’t think I am doing this correctly.>”

\--

Variks chooses to ignore that expression with the merciful excuse of the hatchlings.

“<You’re doing fine,>” Variks reassures Skolas. “<Sometimes infants just need to express their grievances with the world at large. Try curling your hand more. It will make them feel more secure.>”

\--

“<Ssss, little ones,>” Skolas whispers, following Variks’s advice and gently curling his hand, covering them further with his mask.

“<Sss, you’re safe.>” He pulls his cloak over his shoulders to further trap the warmth of his body. “<I will keep you all safe, I promise.>”

\--

“<Excellent,>” Variks says softly. “<See, they’re calming down already.>”

\--

“<They take it with more grace than I did,>” Skolas says with a dry note of irony, listening as the cries begin to fade into hiccups and chirps.

\--

“<And what is that supposed to mean, my kell?>” Variks asks with good humor.

\--

A laugh pulls itself out of Skolas’s lungs despite himself. It seems to surprise the kell into a moment of quiet, and he lingers there for a long moment, slowly blinking his aching eyes. 

“<You have seen me weak enough times that I’m beginning to have no choice _but_ to trust you.>”

\--

Variks snorts. “<Ah, my fiendish plans are coming to fruition,>” he deadpans. “<Soon the entire House shall know that you do not hate children.>”

Yes, it’s still hurtful that Skolas didn’t believe him to be a confidant. But clearly, he should not have expected any different, not with Virixas’s poison filling Skolas’s ears.

\--

Skolas turns that peculiarly soft smile into Variks.

“<I suppose there are worse secrets to spill,>” he remarks, humor warming his tones.

\--

“<Indeed,>” Variks says, sobering. “<And I will guard those just the same.>” It seems worth reiterating.

\--

“<... Thank you,>” Skolas says softly. “<Scribe Variks.>”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Remember the City that even now sends its ghouls to murder our Primes, starve our ether, and leave our young to die gasping.  
Curse that City and its name. The curse is just."  
\-- Ghost Fragment: Fallen 3_


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grayor comes home.

Grayor isn’t _just_ an assassin, of course. That skill set lends itself to espionage easily, even if spying on the Reef is forcing him to specialize those skills at a blistering rate. It’s getting harder and harder to unravel their web defenses without setting off a silent alert, even when it’s only Grayor himself slipping through.

(The best intel from the Hygiea raid, in Grayor’s opinion, was what they’d deduced from the tacit assumptions in the narrative of the texts. Superiority. Mysticism. Uniform veneration of their “queen”, verging on the blasphemous. They almost seemed to view her more as a prime than as a kell.

The most worrying to Grayor is the account of a schism that had occurred a few short years after the Houses arrived in the system. It explains why they’ve seen this “Awoken” breed of Human elsewhere. The account also makes passing mention of a weapon that vaporized half of a baron’s fleet in a single shot. Evidently, they didn’t have many of this weapon... but it didn’t sound like a Harbinger, either. How many fleet-killers does the Reef have tucked away?)

So Grayor slips unseen into small outposts, ones not big enough for military attention from the Wolves or a Techeun from the Reef. From them, he takes codes; he takes transcripts of personal communications; he takes schematics; he takes healthcare records; he takes images of artifacts and weaponry. Anything he can get his hands on.

In his double-handful of dozens of years, this is probably Grayor’s favorite war. He’s fighting for a kell he believes in, and his skills are invaluable to how his kell has chosen to fight.

His _less_ favorite part is that things are different between him and his kell now. The kell who used to be just “Skolas” to him. Now, Grayor’s pretty sure socializing together is a breach of propriety or something. Not that that’s stopped Grayor before, of course, but he really doesn’t want to know for sure whether or not Skolas considers himself above Grayor now.

The choice of going to see Skolas or not is made for him when Peksis and Drikos shove him onto a shuttle to the Kaliks-Fel.

“<I’m going to murder both of you in your sleep,>” Grayor tells his brothers-in-arms.

“<I don’t sleep,>” Drikos monotones. Peksis, on another hand, smirks at Grayor through the closed viewport. 

“<Stop complaining, you don’t have another mission for a week.>” Peksis says cheerily. “<And hey,>” he adds, sobering. “< I’m sure it’ll be fine.>” 

Grayor grunts, and pointedly turns in his seat.

A few hours later, and he’s perched near the ceiling of Skolas’s court. The room’s smaller than old Virixas’s had been, but that one had been excessive to Grayor’s mind.

\--

“<The court is dismissed,>” rings out within the chamber as Skolas rises from his throne, having wrapped up the final hearing of the session. “<Attend to your duties, my nobles.>” 

Flashes of transmat light up the court, accompanying the murmurs of the dispersing crowd and the flicker of holographic platforms turning off. Skolas lingers, organizing his notes and dismissing his screens, chatting to the Judgment scribe behind him as he does so.

\--

Grayor watches the two of them with narrowed eyes. Now, that’s something he hasn’t seen before. Skolas isn’t treating the vandal like a cannon leveled at his back.

\--

Variks says something that makes Skolas’s eyes glimmer with just a hint of humor, and they finally depart, walking through the private exit behind the dais.

\--

Huh.

Grayor climbs soundlessly around the edge of the room and into a tiny maintenance tunnel.

(This is why captains don’t make the best infiltration operatives; there are only so many places they can fit. Especially when their enemies are the size of teenagers.)

It’s the end of the morning’s schedule, so Skolas’ll probably be heading to his quarters. Grayor routes himself to intercept. If he’s wrong about that, Grayor’ll work from there. A good spy’s plans are flexible.

\--

A scent begins to curl through the tunnel the closer Grayor gets to the kell’s chambers. It hangs in the air as a dense cloud of tell-tale pheromones. Skolas’s heavy footsteps echo beneath him, rattling the tunnel even through the sound-dampening insulation.

\--

Grayor engages his air filters, just to be sure he doesn’t cough. Skolas seems fine, so what’s that smell? It’s vaguely familiar, but Grayor can’t place it. 

He doesn’t feel the smaller vibrations of a vandal following Skolas, so he sends him a ping.

\--

Just outside the door, those weighty steps come to a halt.

“<Grayor,>” Skolas calls out instead of answering the ping.

\--

Grayor slides out of the maintenance shaft into a maintenance closet, then kicks the door open to reveal Skolas in the hallway. “<Boss,>” he greets.

\--

The smile Skolas turns upon him is as warm as the system’s golden sun.

“<It has been a very long while, my love.>”

\--

A smile tugs at Grayor’s eyes, wholly involuntarily. Trust Skolas to crash through all those wary thoughts with a single affectionate sentence. “<Been busy,>” he says.

\--

There is a weight to Skolas’s movements as he ushers Grayor into his rooms, one that isn’t just his new mass as a kell. And the scent inside is... denser, too, a veritable wall of it slamming into Grayor’s mouth as the door slides shut behind them.

"<Ether?>" Skolas asks, pressing his knuckles lightly against the back of Grayor’s shoulders.

\--

Grayor flicks open the filters on his mask and breathes in, leaning into Skolas’s touch. “< That’d be nice.>” Unfamiliar scent, heavier stance -- ah. Skolas must be gravid.

\--

Skolas should be going to grab the cylinders of ether saved for visitors, but he suddenly finds that he can’t get his feet to move. He stands where he is, peering down at Grayor, the vandal pressed gently against the front of his thighs.

\--

After a pause, Grayor taps Skolas on the hip. “<You good?>”

\--

“<I don’t really know,>” Skolas says quietly. “<I think carrying is making me a bit soft.>”

\--

Grayor raises a brow. “<Uh huh?>”

\--

“<Is it alright if I carry you, too?>” Skolas says, gentle humor underlying his words.

\--

“<...Uh, sure?>” Grayor chuckles. Damn, does carrying make you go loopy?

\--

Grayor is lighter than Skolas remembers. It takes no effort at all to heft his packmate up, seating him in the crook of his arm, a second hand under the vandal’s knees, a third against the back of a shoulder.

He’s never really asked to hold Grayor before: everything else had been initiated by Grayor, usually to reach something or to use Skolas a vantage point. He’s missed this weight. He’s missed the feel of Grayor in his arms. He cups the side of Grayor’s face and gently leans in to press a slow, adoring nuzzle to it.

\--

It’s been a while since Grayor last used Skolas as a perch. Typically, it’s been Grayor’s initiative; he wouldn’t have guessed that Skolas would miss it. This is a little... confined, for Grayor’s tastes, but he can deal with it.

Especially when Skolas nuzzles him so sweetly. He reaches with his upper arms to cup Skolas’s face in return. It’s bigger than he remembers.

\--

“<I really did miss you,>” Skolas whispers, the formality in his tones fading just a little, a guilty little slip that he doesn’t allow himself to think about. Trying to walk and nuzzle at the same time is a bit of a challenge, but he does at least make it to his nest.

\--

“<Missed you too, you big sap,>” Grayor says, tweaking Skolas’s chin. “<I like it when you talk normal.>”

\--

“<Hah! You would.>”

Stretching out over the bed, he sets Grayor down atop his chest and unlatches a tube from his mask, the auto-lock cutting ether off into a thin, pale whisper. “<Here.>” Warm hands follow the curve of Grayor’s hips, his sides and Skolas watches him with an achingly adoring glow in his eyes.

\--

Grayor huffs a laugh as he settles over Skolas’s chest, a rattly purr starting in his chest as Skolas feels him up. “<Ah, the good stuff,>” he jibes, unhooking one of his own ether lines and hitching Skolas’s into his mask.

A few breaths in and his eyes go wide. “<Wow. What’s _in_ this?>”

\--

“<Things for very pregnant kells,>” Skolas says just a little mischievously. Only the barest hint of guilt buried under the words, for doing something he shouldn’t be. “<Figured you’d appreciate it.>”

\--

“<Well, it’s certainly something,>” Grayor says appreciatively, taking in a good lungful. He shifts to lie down on Skolas’s front, careful not to kink the shared ether line. “<Hope you don’t want it back any time soon.>”

\--

“<Hah, I probably won’t shrivel up for missing a few breaths of ether.>” Skolas rumbles, letting his hands come to rest atop Grayor’s back and stroking slowly. “<So long as Aksor doesn’t find out, we’ll be fine.>”

\--

Grayor makes a disparaging noise over his purr. “<Since when is he your boss?>” he scoffs, fingers drawing idle circles on the skin visible over Skolas’s armor.

\--

“<Since never,>” Skolas scoffs in return, his eyes fluttering at the touches. “<But he might tell on me to Kaliks Major, and _then_ I’d have to sit through more ‘health’ lectures.>”

\--

Grayor lets out a burst of croaky laughter. “<Little snitch.>” He nestles his head just above Skolas’s lungs, the courtly armor soft with glimmer-leather. “<Mm.>” 

It’s so easy to slide back into the rhythm of simple intimacy. Almost too easy. Easier than it’s been before, during other periods of separation. 

Grayor never would have figured that kellship would be good for Skolas.

\--

“<Mmm.>” The sound of that gravelly, rusted-engine laugh is somehow more blissful to Skolas’s ears than any of the collections of music his nobles had gifted to him.

He can only imagine how thoroughly Grayor would drag him for saying that out loud, however, so Skolas instead focuses on stroking a gentle thumb over the vandal’s brow. It’s easier than thinking about how improperly he is acting in allowing this, anyway.

“<Tell me about your missions?>” he asks quietly, tracing over Grayor’s thighs.

\--

Grayor lets his eyes flutter shut under the sweep of a massive thumb. “<Mm. You saying you don’t read my reports?>” He teases. “<I actually bother to write them, nowadays.>”

\--

“< You’re better at telling stories,>” Skolas chitters, low and warm, drawing his knees up.

\--

“<Thanks,>” Grayor hums. “<Well. Not much to tell, really. High stress, low excitement. Take your pick of the last few months.>”

\--

“<Seen any Awoken jacking off?>” Skolas asks with the biggest grin.

\--

“<Hard to tell,>” Grayor says blandly, then ruins it with a wide grin. “<My estimate is about four.>”

\--

They spend many hours curled up together, laughing at bawdy stories, sharing the comfortable warmth of long-missed company. Skolas has half undressed by then: his helmet set off to the side, cape repurposed into a blanket in lieu of having to get up to retrieve the one under them, his undersuit open down to his ribs to let the heat of his gravid body spill into the space between them.

“<I thought I’d be a lot more murderous when I’m carrying,>” he murmurs into the crook of Grayor’s neck, eyes half-lidded.

\--

“<Mm?>” Grayor says, scratching idly at Skolas’s neck.

\--

“<You remember how Virixas was,>” Skolas tilts his head back with the most utterly content purr.

\--

Grayor grunts. “<He was always like that, though,>” he mumbles into Skolas’s neck.

\--

“< That’s not true,>” Skolas whispers, closing his eyes.

\--

Grayor rolls his eyes. “<Whatever you say, boss.>” It’s never been any use, bringing up Virixas’s worse qualities to Skolas. Might as well forget about it completely now that the bastard’s dead. Instead, Grayor rubs along the steel-cable lines of Skolas’s neck muscles, trying to work the tension out.

\--

“<I can hear you rolling those beautiful eyes,>” Skolas hums, all but melting into the touch and realizing suddenly how very, _very_ sore he is. Everything aches, sensitization brought on by the nearness of laying, his back tender from the mass of eggs pushing against his plates hard enough to stretch the skin between them.

\--

“<Damn, carrying makes your ears better too?>” Skolas is always tense as a load-bearing anchor, and Grayor’s never quite figured out the trick of working the stiffness out. Then again, Grayor’s almost always tense too.

\--

“<Just about anything but psychic now.>”

Of course, the main advantage Skolas has over Grayor has always been the muscle department. It’s no effort for him at all to start working his way up his packmate’s sides, feeling for knots under the layers of the vandal’s undersuit.

\--

"<Mmmmnph.>" Grayor melts onto Skolas’s front, hands going limp. With the combination of massage and the illicitly rich ether mix, Grayor feels like he could run around for an entire day -- after a nice nap, of course.

\--

“<Can I bribe you into more visits with massages?>” Skolas teases, watching his packmate flop bonelessly on top of him.

\--

“<You might,>” Grayor mumbles, still purring like a broken engine.

\--

Those massive hands find Grayor’s shoulders and delicately begin working out the snags and kinks there. Firm, slow, kneading circles. 

“<Come visit more,>” Skolas says, smiling. “<I miss you dearly and I give great massages.>”

\--

“<Y’ make a good case,>” Grayor slurs, eyes drooping shut. He doesn’t get enough sleep, never has. He might just drop off right here.

\--

Watching his packmate begin drowsing, Skolas thrums a low note of contentment, fingers gliding over one of Grayor’s horns. He’ll have time to contemplate the myriad of misconducts he’d carefully ignored here, watching Grayor sleep, but for now...

For now, Grayor is warm against his chest, and that is more than enough excuse not to think at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: we've decided that most eliksni cultures (including House eliksni) count in base 12, owing to the fact that when not mutilating the populace, they have twelve fingers! For example, in base 10 Sino numbers, thirteen is literally "ten three", while in Eliksni, it would be "twelve one". Same for twenty-five: in Sino numbers, it's "two ten five", in Eliksni, it's "two twelve one". Unfortunately, this is a little difficult to convey in English (a base 10 language with weirdly irregular number names) so we approximate with liberal usage of the word "dozen".  
  
Also, with that, we've seen Skolas with all of his packmates! Yay!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news of Saint-14's Crusade reaches Variks.

Variks goes through the motions of routine: meeting, meeting, morning court, meeting, meeting. His hands write impeccable notes, if lacking in his usual comments.

He still leaves the radio receiver in his quarters turned on, though it is useless now.

Every so often, he blinks back to himself in the middle of a meeting and realizes he has been functionally insensate for minutes, sometimes hours at a time.

The numbness isn’t healthy, he knows. But only time will break through this frosted glass shielding him from the full weight of his grief. Only time.

Two weeks since Terix Minor picked up that final transmission from Mavaks-4. Variks has listened to it countless times since then, searing the ill news into his ears. Also unhealthy. But he will permit himself this sentimentality while he can.

\--

Something has happened to Variks.

They go through the motions of the cycle together as always, but their conversations between the myriad of meetings are sparse. Skolas reviews the week, trying to pinpoint a moment where he might have done something to drive the scribe back into silence.

There are... far too many possible instances, and he quickly gives up.

A proper investigation into the matter will have to happen later, however, as Skolas is currently trapped amidst a bustling pack of splicers in the archon’s project room.

He is stripped bare of everything save for a new undersuit, properly fitted to his final measurements, all arms raised, surrounded by step ladders. If he hadn’t already started to adjust to being the center of attention, Skolas would find himself lost in the chaotic chattering.

Now and again, there are flashes of transmat, and the splicers all swarm around him, checking the fit of various garments and armor. They eye it critically, discuss it, make notes, and then transmat the parts away once more to be appropriately adjusted as needed.

Aksor, standing in the corner, reviewing the incoming stream of edits, seems mostly amused. Skolas would probably be more annoyed by that if he wasn’t so distracted by the scribe standing silently next to the archon.

\--

Seeing the splicers fussing over Skolas’s garb always lightens Variks’s mood. Now, it keeps him from slipping back into a daze again, even if he doesn’t smile.

Skolas has been looking forward to his proper kell finery, Variks thinks distantly. This is good.

He tilts his head to watch Aksor squinting at the edits.

“<Mm,>” Aksor hums. “<Kell Skolas, what do you think of a contrasting color for the ether lines?>”

\--

_Why do colors have to contrast at all?_ Skolas wonders peevishly.

“<What color are you thinking of, Archon Aksor?>” he asks out loud.

\--

“<Perhaps a burnt orange, to stand out against the Wolves blue,>” Aksor says, frowning and dismissing a few edits.

\--

“<I... do not see why we cannot try?>” Skolas points out, struggling not to give away his utter cluelessness on the matter.

\--

“<Very well,>” Aksor says, smiling.

Aksor likes clothing design, Variks realizes faintly. He would never have expected that.

\--

Anything else Skolas might have added is waylaid by his ether harness being transmatted on, accompanied by more flocking of excited splicers.

\--

Aksor gives Skolas a critical once-over. “<...The helmet needs a different pattern,>” he announces, and the splicers descend in a swarm to fulfill the order.

\--

The mourning garb hadn’t been this detailed, Skolas thinks forlornly, trying not to give in to the urge to so much as twitch as small hands measure and adjust and measure again. Skolas can see various designs popping up on Aksor’s screen from multiple teams of artists. He can’t help the vague feeling of dread that creeps over him as whatever plans he’d had for the rest of the day are slowly drained away.

\--

Aksor is evidently in a merciful mood because it only takes another hour before he declares their work done for the day.

“< We’ll have another fitting tomorrow, Kell Skolas,>” he says, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

\--

Looking like he’s just stepped out of a storm, Skolas stares at Aksor over the scattering sea of splicers, blinking one set of eyes. Then the other.

“<Of course, Archon Aksor.>”

With utmost dignity, Skolas dons his transition clothes as the splicers begin tidying up the workspace, holograms of various pieces of his new regalia flickering off. He bows properly to Aksor, straightens his mantle, and then makes to leave, careful to only spare a glance behind him to make sure that Variks is there.

It’s only after they’ve been transmatted back onto the Kaliks-Fel that Skolas finally allows himself to heave an exasperated sigh.

“<Is it like this for every new kell?>” he asks, dragging his hands down his face.

\--

There’s a brief pause before Variks manages to pull himself back to the present.

“<Archon Aksor seems more... dedicated to the craft than most,>” Variks says, with a hint of his usual humor.

\--

“<I should get to work getting my own retinue together for future dressmaking,>” Skolas grumbles before pulling his composure together in case they encounter anyone in the halls. He casts another look at Variks before tucking his hands under his cloak and moving to head towards their next meeting.

“<You seem quieter than usual.>”

\--

Variks shuts his eyes. It would have been too much to ask for Skolas to not have noticed. Then again, Variks would likely think less of him if he hadn’t.

“<It will pass, my kell,>” Variks says tonelessly. “<Thank you for your concern.>”

The Wolves already knew about the vengeful Ghouls. Them knowing that Judgment is nearly dead can only weaken his position.

\--

“<Not a matter you wish discussed, then?>” Skolas clarifies bluntly. It’s better to know now than to continue having the matter hang over him where his curiosity might reach.

\--

Variks… struggles with the answer to that more than he should.

An advisee is not a confidant; it’s not appropriate. Another scribe is the proper venue.

But there are no other scribes, not anymore. And Variks has already confided in Skolas before, if in a minor way.

“<Perhaps later, my kell,>” Variks says, voice halting. “<Now there is a meeting, yes?>”

\--

“<....>” Skolas casts Variks a sidelong look that is more inquisitive than wary. For the moment, he doesn’t press the matter.

In fact, it doesn’t come up again for hours: there is always much to do for a kell of a recovering house. Meetings on the flow of resources, the state of their collective wealth, the progress on accumulating resources to begin planning for a new ketch, and the careful spying they’ve committed to, now that there is a cold war hanging between them and the Reef.

With the most recent clutch laid, there are also population projections to worry over, the matter of ether supply, ship real estate, the availability of priests, splicers, and soldiers.

Their metaphorical tanks are full to overflowing, and they only find a moment of respite late into the cycle. Sitting together in a private lounge, Skolas lays himself out atop the kell’s daybed, staring out one of the Kaliks-Fel’s few portholes.

“<How far is later?>” he asks, idly sorting through his notes.

\--

Variks blinks awake from his notes. Clicks the screen off. “<I suppose now will do.>”

His hands are remarkably still in his lap. Shouldn’t they be trembling?

\--

Skolas raises his brow. He shuts off his own screen wordlessly before sitting up, arranging his cloak.

“<No time like the present,>” he says, but there is little lightness in his words.

\--

“<Terix Minor received a posthumous transmission from another Judgment servitor two weeks ago,>” Variks says without preamble. “<In the course of their vendetta against the Houses and their kells, the Ghouls have eliminated all other Judgment scribes.>”

His voice is dispassionate, clinical. But he is still as stone.

\--

A long, long pause follows that news, Skolas’s expression fading from almost stunned to something a little more unreadable.

“<... What does that mean for you, then?>”

\--

A humorless smile stretches Variks’s eyes. “<Not much. We are accustomed to operating without much contact between scribes for long periods. This… shall simply be longer.>”

There had already been so few of them. Now, all dead. All dead but Variks. Greksis, Vilsis, Skalsin... little Keraskis, just barely in his full robes when Variks had left. Sense-memories of Vilsis’s arms around him, Skalsin’s hands in his, Keraskis peeking over his shoulder from his place in the sling on Variks’s back -- they pull Variks from the waking world and cloud his eyes, drifting in bittersweet reminiscence.

For the moment, he’s still present, if barely, watching the look on Skolas’s face.

\--

Slowly, Skolas presses a hand to his mask, his brow plates drawing together in a frown under his helmet. Then he is very still and very quiet for far too long, one knee drawn against his chest, an elbow resting atop it.

“<Do you need time to rest?>”

Skolas has never been good at hiding his feelings. But right now, he has no idea what he’s feeling.

\--

“<I,>” Variks starts, then has to start again. “<I think that unwise, my kell.>”

There’s something in his eye, and Variks reaches to brush it away. Ah. He’s crying. “<Matters are still precarious in the House,>” he continues steadily. Inconvenient, that he’s getting emotional now. Something about Skolas’s somber, attentive expression.

\--

Turning his eyes to the floor, Skolas suddenly feels very out of place. Grace in the face of tears has never been one of his strengths.

He can offer the paltry promise that the House will remain stable for however long Variks needs to grieve. He suspects that the excuse isn’t merely a matter of House stability, however.

“<Do you want a drink?>” he asks quietly instead, unfolding his leg and resting both feet on the floor.

\--

“<That would be nice,>” Variks says quietly, hands still locked together in his lap. Ether tears still stream from his eyes, but he’s having a lot of trouble staunching the flow. Damn it all.

\--

Rising from his seat, Skolas strides across the room to a cupboard, commanding it open with a mental ping. From it, he pulls an appropriately vandal-sized cup, then a tall, dark, insulated cylinder.

Skolas unlatches the lid with a thumb and fills the cup up before setting it down onto the table between them, in front of Variks.

“<Feel free to ask for more.>”

\--

“<Thank you,>” Variks says, reaching for the cup. The smooth ceramic cup is grounding. The lukewarm, ether-laced liquor on his tongue helps somewhat as well. Fortunately, the tears are tapering off, just a bit.

\--

“< It’s nice to know that boozing during hard times is relatively universal,>” Skolas remarks as he settles back on his daybed, watching Variks as the tears begin to wisp away.

“<I suppose this makes us even now.>”

\--

Variks snorts softly. “<My House has been dwindling for some time,>” he says. “<You did not expect the Scatter.>”

Usually, he would not admit that little tidbit, but at this point, disclosure is probably not so much of a problem.

\--

“<No, I meant -->” Ah. And now Skolas is even more stilted, gesturing awkwardly. “<About the crying.>”

\--

Variks raises a brow. “<My kell. You’re supposed to cry in front of me. That’s my job.>”

\--

"<I -->"

What exactly is Skolas supposed to say to that?

"<It is?>"

\--

Skolas’s awkward bafflement is oddly charming. It nearly brings a smile to Variks’s eyes. “<Who are you to confide in, if not your scribe?>”

\--

“<My pack, I would think.>” Except Virixas didn’t have a pack, and the thought stops Skolas for a second.

“<... And otherwise to no one at all.>”

\--

“<Not everyone has a pack,>” Variks says softly. “<Scribes keep secrets, all of them.>”

He always seems to forget that Skolas knows nothing of how this is supposed to work.

\--

“<And scribes confide in other scribes?>” Skolas guesses, watching Variks as he leans against the backrest.

\--

“<Yes.>” Variks unhooks his mask again to take another swig.

\--

“<I don’t see how that isn’t supposed to be a security threat,>” he says, just a bit warily.

The glimpse of a weathered face behind the mask is curious, although Skolas commands himself not to stare. He’s seen very few faces reach that age without significant scarring.

\--

“<It could be,>” Variks says tiredly, veil jingling as he reattaches his mask. “<That is why we train extensively for absolute discretion and trustworthiness and do nothing to compromise our confidentiality. It is our calling. Our purpose.>” His purpose alone, now.

Oh, that hurts.

\--

The gentle chime of chainmail fills the thoughtful silence Skolas leaves in the wake of Variks’s words. His eyes set carefully on the cylinder and not on the expression on Variks’s face.

Questioning the integrity of a now-dead House is not comfort. More than ever, Skolas realizes he has no idea how to conduct himself around Variks, much less Variks-now-in-mourning. Variks, who is now confiding in him when he’d threatened to dock the scribe merely a few years ago.

Variks, who is now so impossibly alone.

“<...Is there anything I can do?>” he offers tentatively, roughly, voice uneven around the attempted kindness.

\--

Variks smiles, and it’s not as difficult as he thought it was going to be. “<Thank you, my kell. Your thoughtfulness is a comfort.>” He swirls the liquid in his cup. “<If I think of anything, I will let you know.>”

\--

“<Very well.>”

His dignity is a little ragged around the edges. Skolas turns his head towards the viewport and quietly sinks back into the peace of the quiet lounge.

Gently, very, very gently, he lets go of the final pieces of his distrust towards the scribe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _""I am last of my House. I will not forget." —Variks"  
\-- Longest Vigil, jumpship flavor text_  
  
  
Variks never actually explains why he's the last of House Judgment, nor what happened to the other scribes, nor when he became the last. As usual, we speculate.  
  
The City Age grimoire card mentions "Saint-14's crusade against the Fallen". We're assuming that it refers to the events mentioned in the Legend: Saint-14 grimoire card, where it's implied that Saint-14 has been hunting down the kells of the three Houses that participated in Twilight Gap -- Devils, Kings, and Winter.  
  
What's one of the only things we know about scribes for sure? They're often found around kells.  
  
  
_"“Is that you, my son?” The Speaker’s voice was filled more with anticipation of news than concern.  
“It is, father. The Devil Kell Solkis... is dead. This war is over.”  
“Such courage and power—the greatest ever to brace these worlds. You bring all of us peace, we will light the final flare, Devil Red. They will all know what you've done.”"  
\-- Twilight's End, Legend: Saint-14 grimoire card_


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Variks meets Skolas's friend.

After the surprisingly cathartic talk with Skolas, Variks pulls his mourning garb out of storage. It gets him strange looks, but Variks almost welcomes them. Let his host House see his grief. Let them see the results of the Houses’ failure of Judgment.

Meanwhile, the war with the Reef marches on. The Hildian campaign continues, even after the conclusion of the siege of Pallas. Baron Beltrik secures another victory, baiting a Reef Paladin into wasting the bulk of her fleet against a mere diversionary force. In the wreckage, they find alien corpses wearing jury-rigged Wolves armor and wielding weapons which could be fired in both atmosphere and vacuum; an unsettling development.

(It raises Variks’s suspicions somewhat, that the Reef persists in the campaign. Yes, they have been careful to perpetuate the lie that Skolas is hiding in the Hildians. But the Reef no longer needs to draw their attention away from Pallas. There is a second motive here, but what could it be?)

The Wolves need another avenue of attack, with the best targets still hidden and new maddening information leaks springing up every day.

“<We’ve found traces -- just traces -- of Awoken activity on Mars,>” Drevis says, voice slightly tinny through the speakers. “<The place is crawling with Vex and Cabal, but a beachhead on a planet would do us good. Both for intel and for manufacturing.>”

\--

“<Manufacturing?>” Skolas echoes, pausing in the middle of reviewing his screens to look up at the projection of Drevis. “<I understand the dire need for it, but why on Mars of all places?>”

One of the most contested planets in the system. Pulling up a map of it, Skolas overlays the various territory data on top of the red sphere, squinting. The false machines, the militants, and the Reef all vying to plant their flags on this dusty, cold little world. To what end?

\--

Drevis spreads her hands, hologram flickering. “<If any planet, it would have to be Mars. Earth is rotten with Ghouls, Devils, and Kings. Venus and Mercury are even more infested with false machines, and Winter has evidently staked a claim upon Venus. Most of the moons of the gas giants have not been terraformed, and I’m sure I need not remind you of the entities that claim the Jovians.>” 

She leans in. “<More to the point, Mars is the closest fixed vantage point on the Reef. It would be child’s play to mask our presence under that of the Vex and Cabal.>”

\--

“<Using the chaos as a cover.>” Skolas inclines his head as the shape of Drevis’s plans begin to solidify in his mind.

It would probably be easier than trying to evict Winter, as far as the next most viable option goes. The smallest House is cunning despite their few numbers -- and they are far more familiar with Vex technology than all the Wolves combined. Likely the reason they’d marked Venus as theirs in the first place.

“<You’ve already assembled teams for this?>” He asks, folding his upper hands over his lower ones atop the table.

\--

“<I have assembled some shortlists of personnel,>” Drevis admits. “<Engineering and stealth specialists mainly, plus the few people with Vex and Cabal experience.>”

\--

“<Your foresight is one of your most shining qualities, my baroness,>” Skolas says, warmth in his voice. Suppressing the urge to smile, he continues on with a more appropriate remove.

“<As far as my eyes see, your plan is sound. A piece of Mars for the Wolves while our enemies are blinded fighting each other.>”

\--

“<You are wise, my kell,>” Drevis says, eyes still tinged with a blush. “<Shall I submit the personnel lists and a selection of promising sites?>”

\--

“<If you would be so kind.>” Leaning back slightly, Skolas gazes over the rest of the attending upper echelon before letting his sight settle back on Drevis. “<Are there any other matters to attend to before we conclude this meeting?>”

\--

The few nobles around the table murmur negation. Variks taps out his last notes with a satisfying feedback of haptics.

\--

“<Then the meeting is dismissed.>” Skolas waves away his own screens before pushing onto his feet. “<Attend to your duties, my nobles.>”

\--

The group curtseys in unison before retreating out the door or turning their transmissions off.

“<Also many Human ruins on Mars,>” Variks notes, going over the transcript. “<Hints of another Earth-Servitor. Or perhaps the same one.>”

\--

“<I imagine that is at least part of the reason for so many factions to be there,>” Skolas says speculatively. “<And the Reef, seeking power, now that they’ve come to war with us.>”

\--

“<Though,>” Variks says, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, “<There were intimations in the Hygiea data of a Reef presence on Mars well before the Wolves’ arrival.>”

\--

Paused in the middle of pushing his chair back, Skolas turns to peer at Variks.

“<... Oh? Any traces of reason for their being there?>”

\--

“<My best guess is that no other Human interests had a foothold there,>” Variks says dryly. “<Though I think it likely that it has something to do with the Black Garden. Understandably.>”

\--

“<Do you think they were there before the militants?>” The chair clicks as the magnets lock it into place, and Skolas straightens, turning to leave.

\--

“<It’s probable,>” Variks says, standing from his own seat, “<Considering they are Human, and the militants are not.>”

\--

“<What of their ‘homelands’, then?>” Skolas wonders.

\--

“<... That,>” Variks says, frowning as they leave the room, “<Still remains to be seen. Would they refer to it with such secrecy if it were a place on Earth?>”

\--

“<Everyone and their priest knows where Earth is but I somehow doubt it would stop them.>” Honestly, the Reef’s tendency towards secrecy is worse than the splicers’.

\--

Variks laughs. “<True! Very true, my kell.>”

\--

Skolas allows himself a snort, carefully ignoring the way Variks’s laughter seems to keep ringing warmly in his ears. He’s about to add more when a little ping in the corner of his eyes makes him skip a step. 

“<Hm.>”

\--

Variks’s eyes flick up to Skolas’s face. “<My kell?>”

\--

“<... Private call,>” Skolas answers somewhat stiltedly.

\--

“<Ah,>” Variks says, busying himself with redundantly looking through his notes.

\--

And that would have been that, except Skolas pauses before he excuses himself and instead regards Variks for a moment.

“<... Not _that_ kind,>” he corrects, lingering. Should he? Shouldn’t he? Variks had said he’d keep all secrets. And perhaps…

\--

Variks pauses as well and looks back up. “<I can leave if you wish,>” Variks says gently, “<Or I am here to consult.>” 

Promising, perhaps?

\--

Perhaps it will cheer Variks up.

The fact that he feels the need to cheer Variks up isn’t something Skolas wants to think too hard on.

So he doesn’t. 

“<Come,>” he says, waving Variks over as he mentally reserves one of the weaving rooms.

\--

As he follows, Variks muses that Skolas gets brusque when he’s feeling vulnerable. What is this about, then?

“<A fun surprise?>” He says dryly.

\--

“<Hopefully on both sides.>” A wave of a hand. “<If not, then I’m here to mediate.>”

The Kaliks-Syn is at least quiet: most of the ketch’s fleet is spread out, patrolling the area as they mine resources from a nearby asteroid. The nobles that would typically walk the halls are busy directing their own divisions of Baroness Skriviks’s skiffs.

Skolas steps through the doors to the weaving room and the walls react to his arrival, looms of all sizes unfolding from the ceiling along with spools of various commonly utilized colors. The standard Wolves blue, woven from glimmer-silk, made to perfectly match the hex code for the color in the House’s collective database. And, of course, the less-utilized Wolves White for accents, and an even smaller spool of black. There are empty slots for custom spools that nobles might bring themselves too.

\--

Variks tucks himself away politely on a side chair, pulling out a small belt loom. He’s the only one using anything he weaves, of course, but perhaps he’ll continue to wear some white sashes after he puts his full mourning garb away.

\--

Skolas takes his seat next to Variks, pulling up the controls. From the House’s collective memory, he pulls his current work in progress up and watches as the loom flashes. The heavy piece of tapestry decrypts directly onto the frame.

“<I have a friend,>” he begins, testing the tension of the weft threads out of habit.

\--

“<Congratulations,>” Variks says solemnly, fingers moving over his own loom. If Skolas turns to look, he’ll see Variks’s eyes narrowed with a grin.

\--

If _Variks_ turns to look, he’ll find an indignant squint directed at him in return.

“<I have a friend,>” he begins again, a little more pointedly. And then, with just a hint of tentativeness, “<An old friend. A dreg.>”

\--

Variks grins even wider at the indignant expression, and gestures encouragingly, as if to say ‘go on’.

(‘Have’ a friend. Which means Skolas is still in contact with this friend. And from context, it certainly doesn’t sound like he’s talking about Peekis.)

\--

“<I figure it’s time to introduce you to each other.>” Running his thumb over the thread wound around his shuttle, Skolas turns his eyes to the loom. “<If you’d like.>”

\--

“<I would be honored,>” Variks says, eyes never straying from the pattern taking shape under his own fingers. “<An old crewmate?>” 

Skolas’s meteoric rise through the ranks means that a living dreg friend is not as unlikely as it would be otherwise. Less time to be used as shrapnel fodder.

\--

“<Yes.>”

And his mentor in more ways than one.

Skolas sighs quietly and draws himself up and together before pulling up an additional screen and sending a ping through it.

“<Just as a warning,>” he says mildly. “<She’s not terribly polite.>”

Video pops in from the ping screen, and a scarred face fades into view just in time to catch the tail end of his comment.

“<I’m plenty polite where it matters,>” the dreg says blithely. Her helmet is off, and she seems to be secluded away in a maintenance closet of some kind, clearly off-duty.

\--

Variks smiles politely at the dreg on the screen. “<I am Variks of Judgment,>” he says, bowing at the waist, as best he can while seated. Skolas clearly planned this; there’s simply no way a dreg would be able to slip away unseen for an extended conversation on short notice, even if off-duty. Something about that is terribly endearing.

Variks wonders why he isn’t more surprised by the revelation that Skolas has kept in contact with a dreg friend. Perhaps it’s the clear affection Skolas lavishes on his favored underlings; it makes sense that an even lower-ranked friend would remain in his affections.

\--

“<Merik, the dreg,>” she says in more unaffected Wolves speech, affecting a curtsey half-stalled by a stack of detergent bottles. “<Fancy meeting you after all this time listening to Skolas’s griping.>”

“<Wasn’t griping,>” Skolas quips back, plucking out his wefts, his own accent slipping into the odd middle between noble and rabble. “<Not all of it.>”

\--

“<Oh?>” Variks says, smiling wider. “<Do tell.>”

This “Merik” wouldn’t be bringing it up if it were truly dangerous, Variks can assume. That being said, what does Skolas have to complain about?

(Lower-rank speech seems to come more easily to Skolas’s tongue. Interesting.)

\--

“<This is going swell already,>” Skolas says dryly, glancing between the two of them.

“<Just invoke that kell authority when you want us to stop gossiping about you to your face, eh?>” Merik says, eyes shining with amusement.

“<You are a terrible influence.>”

“<He says,>” Merik says, grinning brightly as she turns to Variks, gesturing as she does. “<The guy says that you’ve been a real pain in the arse because you keep making him use that thick head of his for actual thinking.>”

“<Machine’s _grace_.>”

\--

“<I,>” Variks says, a lower hand pressed to his mask in a futile attempt to muffle his aborted chuckle, “<Am going to take that as a compliment.>”

\--

“<You know, I’m not seeing why you complain so much,>” Merik says. “<He’s plenty nice. I like him.>”

“<Here I was thinking that introducing you two’d be lovely,>” Skolas grumbles. “<Too late, I realize I’ve set in motion a catastrophe.>”

\--

“<Thank you, Merik,>” Variks says, with great dignity. “<I am glad there is someone else of taste in this conversation.>” A risky tease, but they seem to be lapsing into low-ranked Wolves irreverence, and stiffness on Variks’s part will ruin the atmosphere.

\--

“<There are other sports that don’t include dragging my good name through the engine grease,>” Skolas points out with dreary long-suffering.

“<Yeah, but they’re not near as fun.>” Planting her chin atop a palm, Merik smirks. “<So, why don’t you tell me about yourself there, Variks?>”

\--

“<Ah,>” Variks demurs, snipping off a thread, “<There is not much to tell. Mainly I follow your kell here around, yes?>”

Disclosing to a skittish Skolas is one thing. Getting chatty with his friend is quite another. But things seem to be heading in that direction.

\--

“<I see, I see,>” Merik says, nodding. “<Any new embarrassing crushes?>”

Of course, only the most essential questions.

\--

“<On my part or his?>” Variks asks, entirely straight-faced.

\--

"<Oh my god,>" Skolas interjects.

“<You know, you got me interested now.>” Merik grins just a little too brightly. “<Why not both?>”

\--

“<My social scene has been a little dry lately, excepting your lovely self,>” Variks says, tipping his head in Merik’s direction. “<Skolas, on another hand...>”

\--

“<Is it Skriviks?>” Merik asks in pure, wicked delight. “<He’s been dodging every time she comes up.>”

\--

“<I can neither confirm nor deny anything he has told me,>” Variks says gravely. “<Fortunately, he hasn’t told me anything, and I can merely report that Skriviks has been on the Kaliks-Fel with some frequency.>”

\--

“<Oh. My _god,_>” Skolas says loudly. Merik meanwhile cackles in delight.

\--

“<Of course,>” Variks continues with deceptive blandness, “<There is always an adjustment period with a new barony. That could account for it.>”

This is oddly fun. He’s missed bantering like this, with dry humor and confidentiality.

\--

“<Alright, break it up,>” Skolas pushes just a little louder.

“<But it was just getting fun! Do you know how much fuel I need to grease the rumor mills around here?>”

“<You do _not_ need more fuel.>”

\--

“<Yes, whatever happened to old-fashioned ‘making it up’?>” Variks asks, all wide-eyed innocence. He sends an amused, faintly apologetic look Skolas’s way, just in case.

\--

“<Absolutely not,>” Skolas retorts hotly.

“<Oh, I do plenty of that, don’t worry,>” Merik says beatifically.

\--

“<You wouldn’t happen to be the originator of that little rumor about Beltrik, would you?>” Variks asks, raising an amused brow.

\--

“<Noooo. What? No.>” Merik clasps her hands to her chest. "<Meee?>"

“<What rumor?>” Skolas asks warily.

“<Nothing that your delicate ears need hear, my kell,>” she answers brightly.

\--

Variks makes a solemn gesture. “<Yes, we must preserve your innocence,>” he says gravely.

Beltrik, from what Variks can gather of public opinion on the low-ranked crew forums he lurks, is in the interesting position of being a favorite of a successful kell as well as being his chief strategist. There is never uniform approval of a chief strategist, not when people’s friends may have been ordered into the line of fire. Still, Beltrik’s plans have been largely successful, even if those persons of Pirsis’s line of thinking grumble about the lack of righteous slaughter.

Thus, most of the rumors about him are of the tame, amusing sort. Nothing truly troubling.

\--

“<How strange that I don’t suspect my innocence to be at the forefront of your motivations here.>”

And yet, Skolas relaxes by just a few millimeters. It seems to catch Merik’s eye and softens her expression just a little, her gaze darting briefly to catch Variks’s before turning back.

“<Well,>” she says, pushing off of the pile of laundry bags. “<I’m about to run out of time.>”

\--

“<I hope we haven’t kept you too long,>” Variks says, a touch of genuine concern in his voice. Merik obviously has a good head on her shoulders, but most dregs need a firm hand to keep them in line, and it wouldn’t be good if anyone caught her chatting casually with the kell.

\--

“<No, no, I have my alibis.>” She bobbles her head in a sly little wink.

“<Stay safe, my friend,>” Skolas says warmly.

“<And you safer, my kell,>” Merik says in return. Then, to the scribe. “<You as well, Variks.>”

The screen flickers off, Skolas gazing at the empty air, his shuttle still in hand instead of weaving.

\--

“<She seems companionable,>” Variks says, after a polite silence, to let Skolas think.

\--

“<She is the height of dreg villainy.>” Turning, Skolas casts Variks a look, half amusement and half frown in an odd paradox on his face.

\--

“<A good friend to have, in a crew,>” Variks says, giving Skolas a measuring look back. There is something else Skolas wishes to say, but Variks does not need to prompt him.

\--

“<Only if you contractually agree to being teased eternally.>” Finally, he makes his hands move, sliding the shuttle through the weft, carefully not acknowledging that look.

This particular piece of tapestry has been an on-and-off-again project for the last year, and it’s only a little over a third of the way complete. He’s still unsure who to gift it to, or how content he is with the final design. The sweeping motifs of circles and blue on blue threads have been challenging to pull off.

\--

“<Not such a trial, in the grand scheme of things,>” Variks says peaceably, returning most of his attention to the sash forming on his belt loom.

\--

“<No,>” Skolas agrees. “<No, it is not.>”

\--

Variks lapses into contemplative silence, mulling over this new insight into Skolas’s attachments. It fits perfectly with Skolas’s general willingness to reorient his strategic priorities from carnage to pragmatism: the first casualties in any military action are the shrapnel-fodder.

\--

“<Do Judgment scribes not typically cavort with the lower ranks?>” Skolas asks after some time, his hands falling into a steady rhythm of weaving, checking, and pulling the beater bar down.

\--

“<Scribes are assigned to advisees in rank order,>” Variks explains, voice serene as his hands dip and weave. “<It is more important that the kell has an advisor than a lower baron, after all. And our advisees... often see it as improper to be associating with the ‘rabble’.>”

Variks shrugs. “<In our more populous days, the more junior scribes assigned to high captains would often have lower-ranked friends. It’s good for social development.>”

\--

“<And what of older scribes?>” Pausing, Skolas saves the pattern and turns his attention to the design holographically projected on the weft above, adjusting several details. “<Do they retain those relations or do they move more towards socializing with other scribes?>”

\--

“<If we have made friends in the lower ranks while junior, we do our best to keep in contact, much as you have,>” Variks says, swapping his threads. My, that’s a lovely pattern Skolas is developing. “<But we do tend to lose the opportunity for in-person socialization time.>”

\--

“<... Well.>” Tipping his head, Skolas peers over his shoulder at Variks. “<Then I hold tentative hope that I have helped make you a new friend.>”

Hope, overshadowed by the sheer amount of mischief he can already foresee Variks and Merik getting into.

\--

Variks’s fingers pause, and he looks up at Skolas. “<...Thank you,>” he says, his voice tinged with more surprise than he’d intended. He’d assumed this was a method of vetting, to ensure he would keep Skolas’s secrets; he hadn’t considered genuine consideration on Skolas’s part. 

How unexpectedly touching.

\--

Somehow, that seems to surprise Skolas too. He holds Variks’s gaze for a moment longer than intended before clearing his throat and turning back to the tapestry.

“<You are welcome, Scribe Variks.>”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“"I will do no one else's work." Skolas has been a pawn long enough. A Dreg told him, once, that she would play in a game as long as the game made sense…  
Everything wants to kill his people, the machines and the militants and the green-eyed Hive. The dead soldiers that hoard the Great Machine and come out crusading to wipe all hope away.” -- Mystery: Fate of Skolas grimoire card_  
  
  
Our source for Merik is the above quote, as well as the eliksni's terms for the Vex and the Cabal. Given that the House eliksni worship _machines_, we decided that they colloquially call the Vex "false machines", given that they're actually microbes and not machines.  
  
The Battle of False Tidings isn't addressed much in lore. All we know is that it somehow involved Beltrik dunking on Paladin Abra Zire, probably involving Abra Zire rushing straight at Beltrik's forces.  
  
  
_"2a. Due to history of violence between PLDN CMD TF 4.1 and HVT R3, particularly Battle of False Tidings/Hildian Campaign, Beltrik expects TF 4.1 to engage his screen directly. We will exploit this expectation. Fragment orders follow." -- The Fortuna Plummet, Ghost Fragment: The Reef 3 grimoire card_  
  
_"During the Hildian Campaign, modified Fallen armor was more common among the Reef troops than the standard issue." -- Corsair's Revenge 2.0, Hunter arm armor flavor text_  
  
_“During the Hildian Campaign, the Queen had need of weapons that could fire in a vacuum as well as an atmosphere.” -- Wolves' Bane, machine gun flavor text_


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reef knows where Skolas is. Featuring just a touch of gore.

A nursery ketch and its fleet falls somewhere amidst the black vacuum, and the Wolves scramble to find out why. The number of corpses found amongst the ruin doesn’t match the number in the crew manifest, the wreckage strewn across and tangled with the matching carcass of a Devils ship. The baron of the ship is dead, struck down post-crash. There are traces of Reef activity, long gone.

The House of Wolves, like all contemporary eliksni Houses, hides its eggs carefully, guards its children closely. More recently, as a tactic to avoid future instances of the Scatter, the Wolves have begun spreading the custody of the eggs out across various ketches, in addition to only housing the hatchlings and children aboard dedicated nursery ships as usual.

The threat of the Harbingers means that large fleets are vulnerable, and so the House pushes itself apart. In exchange, each smaller, diminished fleet, each ketch with its more modest accompaniment, is made more vulnerable to unexpected attacks. Isolation amplifies the danger of ambushes and here….

Here, they’d arrived too late.

Security leaks had been a rising concern, but efforts to root them out have been met with little headway. Most engagements in the Hildians have not resulted in the same resounding victory as the Battle of False Tidings. Diagnostic capabilities previously under the prime’s jurisdiction have been inaccessible without a prime. Kaliks Major’s resources are stretched thin, and it was only a matter of time before something like this happened.

That none of the fleets had heard the ketch’s dying cries suggested jamming technology more along the lines of Devils capability. Lured in by the Reef to trick them into bringing down the Wolves for them, perhaps. Egg theft would explain why it had been a nursery ketch: eggs were a precious resource and undoubtedly even more so with the death of so many kells and archons: that much is undisputed.

No, the true question is _how_ they’d been able to distinguish a nursery ketch from the rest of the fleet.

And if they could indeed distinguish the ketches... naturally, it was only a matter of time before one of the House’s two egg-layers found themselves caught in the Reef’s snare. 

Kaliks-Din is the ketch designated to house Skolas for the week, with Baroness Skirksir overseeing the duration of his stay. With the Reef still hunting her kell through the Hildians, the Kaliks-Din stands on its highest alert, tucked away in the inner ring of Trojan asteroids.

They notice immediately when a Reef fleet slips out of warp space. They mobilize instantly to warp away.

Later, they would find out that Skirksir’s ship had been the target of an experimental Reef weapon. 

In the moment, however, the Kaliks-Din finds three holes torn clean through its warp engines by a single projectile launched from the Reef fleet. No proximity alerts, nothing for their defenses to lock onto, to target and burn away. The ketch’s shielding is punctured like it was little more than foil. The entire fleet’s escape grinds to a halt.

Immediately, the ketch screams out for reinforcements as Reef forces close in. Baroness Skirksir’s fleet is outnumbered. They’d been relying on the ketch’s relative innocuousness to slip by unnoticed, and so the fleet’s complement was carefully left as it was, to curate the appearance of insignificance.

Skolas and part of his entourage are transmatted onto a small contingent of skiffs -- but the moment they try to warp away, they, too, find holes blasted through their engines.

\--

This sort of thing has become distressingly common for someone who’s supposed to be very far away from the front lines, Variks reflects, trotting along as fast as he can in Skolas’s wake.

“<Disengagement seems not to be an option,>” he remarks blandly, barely audible over the skiff’s alarms.

He should probably be more alarmed by the increasingly high chances of death. But at this point, it’s out of his hands; tactics are not his area of expertise any more than combat itself is.

\--

“<They want to capture the ketch and its fleet. Some of the fleet, minimum.>”

A skiff is not enough space for a kell. Skolas has to bend to navigate the ship, has to flatten himself against the walls as the crew scramble to and fro, trying to ascertain the extent of the damage. The two Kellsguard accompanying him aren’t helping with the issue of space either.

“<Twelve minutes until reinforcements arrive,>” the skiff’s captain announces as Skolas hands one of the dregs a canister of sealing foam.

\--

“<Meanwhile, we’re just sitting here,>” Variks says in an undertone. Assuming reinforcements don’t develop holes in their engines as well.

Ketch engines aren’t easy to disable, even with a weapon that can punch neat little holes through them. You would have to know exactly where to hit. There’s a leak; there has to be.

In the meantime, perhaps something unexpected is called for?

“<Is this skiff equipped for boarding?>” Variks asks Skolas in a conversational tone.

\--

“<No,>” the captain responds. “<We’ve only three fully-equipped Scorch teams in this fleet, Scribe Variks.>”

“<The transmat beacons have been planted. They’ve been deployed,>” Skolas says, tapped directly into the movements of Skirksir’s fleet through kell permissions.

\--

Variks taps in with his slightly lower, but still sufficient scribe permissions. A detachment of Reef Galliots warps in as he watches.

\--

“<Strap in!>” The captain shouts in alarm as the pilot servitor turns their guns on approaching ships.

“<They’re _going to tractor beam --!_>”

Objects in motion tend to stay in motion. When a skiff’s main thrusters have been shot, and the directional thrusters only had a few minutes to compensate… a ship coming to a dead stop at 300 kilometers per hour is only marginally better than 1000 kilometers an hour.

Skolas has but a few seconds to yank Variks into the nearest chair before the world hits a wall.

\--

Variks is a fast thinker. His reflexes, on another hand, are not fast at all.

Skolas’s hand crushing him into a chair and painfully compressing his chest is the only reason he doesn’t go flying and likely crack his head open against the nearest console. At the very least, he manages to keep a hold of his staff, although the end of it smacks into his head in so doing; a flying rod of metal is no one’s idea of a good time.

His other hands are holding on to Skolas’s arm, which is silly given that Skolas is no more anchored than he is, but there’s no time to think.

\--

There’s a dead ringing silence.

Skolas sees the broken body of an unlucky vandal floating by. Some of the crew strapped into their chairs have been knocked unconscious. The rest are stunned.

It takes a second for the ether to redistribute inside his skull. He realizes that he’s half embedded into the wall next to Variks.

A flash of transmat fills the dim crew bay, and for a moment, he struggles to process what he is seeing. He thinks it is three very malformed dregs, but there are no secondary arm stubs at all, and the armor sits far too oddly on their little bodies.

They catch sight of him, and there is a startled pause. Then they’re swinging their guns around --

Skolas crushes one of the creature’s heads in, a bullet tagging him in the side of his neck. The other two meet a similar fate, one halfway through shouting something into their comms.

\--

Variks drops to the floor as Skolas moves in a blur to crush the aliens into pulp, staggering and falling to his knees. 

“<Skolas,>” Variks gasps, head spinning. “<Skolas, you need to go. There will be more.>” They’ll come to investigate the comms, and another Wolf kell will fall.

\--

If he’d been anything less augmented than a kell, he’d be dead by now, Skolas realizes.

“<We can’t run from them,>” he says with a clarity that is surprising to his own ears. “<I suppose that only leaves one direction for me to go.>”

\--

“<Er,>” Variks says stupidly, “<Yes.>” Ah, right, Skolas had been a Scorch captain himself. “<I would go before they can regroup, yes?>” And Variks shall look for a medic kit.

\--

Under the panels of the floor, the shanks’ panicked whirrings soften to gentle humming. Skolas watches through the external feeds as they’re deployed from the ship’s belly to open fire on the Galliot holding their skiff prisoner. 

“<Take care of him,>” Skolas orders one of the recovering Kellsguard as he mentally hooks himself onto the transmat path one of the Scorch teams is using. He casts Variks one last glance before disappearing in a flash of light.

\--

“< Don’t listen to him,>” Variks says briskly, “<Go back him up.>” As he says so, he’s already moving to make repairs on the pilot servitor that’s still stunned by the feedback of the sudden stop. He has no intention of making himself into a target.

* * *

The steps for boarding a ship are as follows: first, the Scorch team’s servitor launches transmat beacons into their target’s hull. The primary defense against this is to shoot down the beacons before they can attach, or to dislodge them quickly afterward.

The Reefship Hlin manages to dispatch the initial waves of beacons. It misses two from the next.

Second, the Scorch team transmats onto the hull using the beacons as a guide. One of the most significant advantages the Wolves have over the Awoken is that their servitors can perfectly control transmat over vast distances. All they need is a coordinate. 

Third, once the Scorch team has landed, the team clears out any immediate threats, such as external gun platforms or drones. They deploy a shield wall. The team’s captain uses the Scorch cannon for which their units are named, and they begin burning their way into the hull.

The team establishes a beachhead. 

After that, Reefship Hlin’s final line of defense is cordoning off the breached bulkhead and deploying troops to gun down the Wolves being transmatted in. While the Wolves almost always have the advantage of numbers, the Reef can easily bottleneck the invaders in the warship’s narrow corridors. They have better knowledge of their ship’s layout.

They were expecting to be able to weather out the Kaliks-Din’s small boarding presence.

They were not expecting to face down the Wolf kell himself and the Kellsguard in his wake.

\--

(“<Is it repairable?>” Variks asks the skiff’s captain. The skiff’s splicer was one of the poor souls who’d experienced the full consequences of momentum, so Variks, as the person with the most medical knowledge currently alive, is trying to stabilize a vandal’s spinal column while he talks.

“<Possibly, Scribe Variks,>” Captain Bilksik replies. She sounds frazzled, but that’s understandable given she’s elbow-deep in some half-fried control paneling. Her lower arm is splinted to her front, broken in two places. “<We need to patch the engine hull, but EVA would be risky given the, er. Circumstances.>” 

“<Mm.>” Variks squints at his handiwork. “<Well, best to risk it, given that we’re the last known position of the kell, and therefore a very juicy target.>” 

Bilksik gulps and moves faster.)

\--

Guns that would work against Wolf footsoldiers do little more than annoy Skolas. He tears through the bulkhead doors, crushes the Awoken behind them. His Wolves establish a fortified zone, safe enough for a servitor to transmat in. The servitor hijacks the ship’s network, taking it over, system by system.

The Hlin’s fleet dissolves into disarray shortly after. The Hlin attempts to alert the other ships, but the servitor strangles its communication lines. The Hlin attempts to fold away, hoping to signal the rest of the fleet to follow -- but the servitor cuts it short and redirects the energy.

The Hlin is left hanging just as helpless as the Kaliks-Din, and Skolas waits until each and every system is under the Wolves’ control before making his move.

They paint the walls of the Reefship Hlin with blood. Every bit of resistance is met with swift death. Skolas gives up his gun and blade in favor of crushing the little bodies in his hands, popping open their soft blue heads, caving in their delicate lungs. 

Only the tattered Techeun and a few scraps of the crew are left alive to be corralled into the bridge by the time Skolas arrives. They shake on their knees before the Wolf kell, his armor drenched, dripping with gore, death trailing in his wake like an extension of his cloak. To his sides stand the Kellsguard, a high servitor, and the Scorch captains.

Skolas feels it, the moment the Wolf reinforcements finally arrive; watches through a thousand senses as they overwhelm the Reef Galliots.

“<Rejoice, little nothings,>” he announces as the servitor translates, sweeping his arms over the crowd of small, trembling, fearful aliens. “<You have been granted the honor of dying last.>”

\--

Variks watches Skolas descend on the last of the Hlin’s crew like a specter of death with a smile settled comfortably on his face. In one bold stroke, Skolas has turned a potentially humiliating defeat into a display of pure might and ruthlessness, showing the aliens of the Reef and the skeptics within the House alike that the Wolf kell -- and the House by extension -- is a force to be reckoned with.

Whatever enterprising Scorch captain ordered the broadcast of this livestream deserves a promotion.

“<Machine,>” Bilksik breathes next to him, her gaze transfixed by the holoscreen.

“<Impressive, yes?>” Why, Variks almost feels proud of his advisee. Truly, they could not have arranged for a better propaganda opportunity if they’d tried.

The damage and casualties are... regrettable, of course. And those unknown weapons are undoubtedly troubling. But with the Hlin subdued, they will not remain unknown for long.

Variks sits back and waits for the kell to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"He knows battle, and so death does not disturb him. He was born of war, made for it, shaped by it. And yet, as he stares out at the charred bodies of his cousins, at the bent bodies of his new allies…"  
"Over the next hour, he finds a Wolf that he half-remembers from a distant relative's coming-of-age ceremony; three Devils who look at him with uncomprehending confusion and anger; and one Crow irretrievably trapped beneath the fuselage of his ship." -- Truth, rocket launcher lore tab_  
  
  
So, the interesting thing about Mr. Misraaks siding with Sjur Eido/the Reef (for, you know, unclear and slightly nonsensical reasons) is that in the Truth rocket launcher's lore tab... he seems to be okay with the fact that the people he's allied with now have just murdered a bunch of _his_ former people. Maybe a little disturbed by it, but not enough to hold any compunctions about essentially stealing a child.  
  
On top of that, there's just no way that the Reef wasn't pumping him for information they could use on the Wolves and eliksni in general; so there's every chance Misraaks helped bring down that hatchling's parent personally.  
  
On a lighter note, due to the absolutely massive health pools that kell and archon bosses have in-game, we've headcanoned that kells and archons undergo extensive epigenetic tweaking not just to juice up the egg production, but also to make them absolute physical juggernauts. Can't have your main egg dude getting whacked by whiplash!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Variks and Skolas talk in the aftermath of the attack on the Kaliks-Din.

For his part, Skolas endures having the shattered remnants of bullets transmatted out of his body with little complaint. Fortunately, not many penetrated his dense carapace or the engineered silk weave of his undersuit. Reef guns were made with hull integrity in mind: the ammunition was designed to split upon penetration rather than punching all the way through.

Skolas just happened to be more akin in toughness to Reefship hulls than their typical targets, the shrapnel unpleasant to remove but not otherwise dangerous.

Some of him aches, but not with the intensity he’d expected. His side is bruised from the impact with the skiff’s wall, but the damage is minor at worst. At the very least, he should be experiencing whiplash from the sudden halt, but he takes in the quiet of the splicership’s medical chambers without the slightest hint of that familiar, sluggish haze pulled over his mind.

Kells are designed to survive. It had never fully sunk in until now.

Of course, despite that, the resident high priest had taken one look at him and promptly prescribed three days of rest. Lacking anything better to do, Skolas opts for light duty instead, making his rounds through the bay.

“<You’re looking better,>” he says by way of greeting, privacy curtain parted with a hand. He offers Variks a tentative smile.

\--

“<And you are looking downright lively,>” Variks says dryly, before offering a smile in return. Skolas looks to be in the prime of health. Variks, meanwhile, aches all over, and that’s not even taking into account the mild concussion. According to the priest supervising his recovery, there’s a rather spectacular pattern of bruising underneath his torso plating.

\--

Sliding himself onto the bedside stool, Skolas takes a moment to arrange his cloak. 

“<That... was far too close.>”

In multiple ways.

He doesn’t want to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t grabbed Variks in time. And he doesn’t want to think about why _that_ particular thought is the one that keeps looping in his mind.

\--

Variks sighs, settling back into his chair. The priest had been very insistent that he stay immobile, and Variks is happy to oblige.

“<This leak has gotten out of hand,>” he says grimly. “<They should not have been able to guess where the Kaliks-Din’s engine vulnerabilities were from intercepted transmissions or ship scans.>”

\--

“<There’s only one way for them to have obtained that kind of data.>”

It’s disbelief that lines his voice, Skolas realizes.

After everything. _Everything._ That the Reef had done to them. Halving their House, cutting down their servitors, destroying their ketches, slaying their _children --_

And here was a traitor in their ranks, who’d witnessed all of that death, all of that destruction, and had still decided to sell their House to the Reef.

“<Archon Aksor’s and Kaliks Major’s fleets have been ordered to stand on high alert,>” Skolas presses on, his voice cracked like the edges of broken glass.

\--

“<Mm,>” Variks says, a considering tone in his voice. “<Wise, I think. But... in hindsight, I am unsure of whether the Reef knew you were aboard.>”

\--

"<No?>" But there’s already a note of agreement under the ragged edges of his words. He peers down at Variks, eyes gleaming like embers under graying coal.

No, the Reefship had been thoroughly unprepared for him, and that is why they’re alive now.

\--

“<Perhaps,>” Variks says, humor in his voice, “<they thought the unassuming, lonesome Kaliks-Din to be an easy target.>”

\--

Slowly, Skolas folds his arms together, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“<It’s a rather large coincidence,>” he points out, not quite an argument, but still uneasy.

\--

“<There is evidence of mild paracausality being endemic to their population,>” Variks reminds him. “<Which is just as concerning, if in a different manner, yes?>”

\--

“<There is a high likelihood of a traitor, and we face an enemy with paracausal affinity.>” Skolas makes a gesture, tapping his fingers against his upper arm, scowl deep and stormy. “<One that keeps pulling fleet destroying weapons out of the black.>”

\--

“<A redesign of the Kaliks-Din’s engine configuration may be in order,>” Variks muses. “<All other ketches, too.>” Each ketch is unique, of course. Their history as shipwrights built into those massive hulls. Which is why the Reef should not have been able to disable them so neatly.

“<As for the traitor...>” Variks frowns. “<An Irxis partisan, perhaps? The information leaks are too comprehensive to have been gained by unwilling interrogation, but they lack strategic understanding. They do not often strike where it would hurt most.>”

\--

“<Engine reconfiguration,>” Skolas laughs, utterly humorless. “<The holy engines that saved our people from the Hive -- and now they must be _reconfigured_ because we have a traitor.>”

The bitterness is beginning to burn through, and it leaves smoke in his mouth. He laughs again because there is nothing else he can do.

“<I suspect that it will only be a matter of time.>” Resting his fingers against his brow, Skolas closes his eyes, swallowing around the acrid taste in the back of his throat. “<These strikes seem to be initial stages of a larger plan. To test us and our responses, perhaps.>”

\--

“<I believe events have necessitated engine reconfigurations in the past,>” Variks consoles him. “<It’s good practice. And given we already suspected a leak of some sort, a vulnerability...>”

\--

“<I will order Baron Beltrik onto the matter.>” Skolas leans against the wall behind him, mandibles set against his jaw. “<Pull him away from the Hildians and hand the matter to Pirsis for a while. This is more immediately pressing, and his penchant for engineering projects is valuable here.>”

\--

Variks watches the tension in Skolas’s body. “<A wise move, my kell. I am sure he will welcome the challenge. And Baroness Pirsis would welcome the chance to strategize.>” Maybe.

\--

“<What is the Reef offering that would draw a Wolf into their folds?>” Skolas muses, carefully not acknowledging the weight of Variks’s gaze. “<And more concerningly: would they be able to convince more onto their side?>”

Why not the Devils or Kings or the myriad other enemies of the Wolves? Why would they bet their life on the mercy of aliens who’ve shown nothing but contempt for eliksni life?

\--

Variks steeples his fingers, humming thoughtfully. “<If it is a personal vendetta against you from one of your rivals’ partisans, that could be manageable. Public opinion is promisingly high.>”

He shrugs. “<Discontent in general breeds traitors. As does self-interest. Regardless of the motivation, this person would need assurance that the aliens wouldn’t kill them.>” He pauses. “<Which does raise the question of how the traitor found the opportunity.>”

\--

“<Assuming they don’t have a servitor to bless them with ether...>”

Skolas gestures and several screens flicker to life in the air between them.

“<And assuming the Reef hasn’t committed the sin of cracking a servitor into synthesizing ether unwillingly for them,>” he mutters, frowning. “<A lot of assumptions to make, but perhaps we can pinpoint their potential identity. Cross over the dates for reported MIA crew listings and the reports of the Reef’s theft of our ether....>”

\--

“<One cannot rule out the possibility that the traitor has helped them commit just that sin,>” Variks says grimly. “<But if the traitor has the technical mastery to do that... I think we would have sustained much more damage, yes?>”

He peers at Skolas’s screens. “<The first notable security breaches were after the Siege of Pallas, but perhaps... we should also search for earlier unexplained... errors.>”

\--

“<They’ve just enough technological mastery to be trouble,>” Skolas says wryly, pulling up the third stream of data.

Ether lost to theft tagged with Reef interference, unusual security breaches.

"<Amethyst?>" Skolas hums thoughtfully. Contrasting the data next to each other, he then overlays the dates of reported MIA cases. The list is still extensive, but they now have a few hundred names instead of none.

\--

Variks flexes a hand in thought, but stops the motion halfway, wincing. “<The disarray after the Eos Clash was one of the reasons the Reef did not expect the raid of Amethyst... but it would also have been an opportunity for desertion.>”

\--

Skolas carefully pretends not to notice the wince. He keeps his eyes on the list, scrolling through the attached images, glancing over the names.

“<It also means there is the possibility of there being more than one collaborator.>” Scowling, he pulls up the amount of ether lost to each Reef-linked theft.

\--

Variks peers over. “<Frankly, I’m shocked that there’s a Reef traitor in the first place. Who would side with those slaughterers?>” He pauses. “<Though their options may have been limited by the ire of the other Houses toward the Wolves.>”

\--

That draws a bitter snort from Skolas, the sound edged with real regret. “<Ironic that our failure to assist in the Final Attempt would make things so dire for potential traitors that they would turn to the Reef.>”

\--

“<Best not to publicize this affair,>” Variks murmurs. “<Too puzzling. Too demoralizing. Too many unknowns.>”

\--

“<I will turn the matter over to Drevis,>” Skolas says, rubbing hard circles into the skin under his eyes, already feeling the weight of future sleeplessness hanging over him. “<Let her and hers sift through it and see what we might have missed.>”

\--

“<A good choice,>” Variks says, watching the stress tug at Skolas’s eyes. “<With that settled for now... you have recovered well?>”

\--

“<Better than you have.>” Rude, but there’s an oddly warm note entangled with it, and Skolas gives Variks a rough sketch of a smile. Sobering slightly, he continues, “<I’m still at the early stages of this pregnancy. The clutch Skirksir sired appears intact, but it will take a few weeks to see if this incident affected anything. Otherwise, there are only a few bruises.>”

\--

“<That is excellent news.>”

(Variks hadn’t even been thinking of the clutch.)

“<It was a bold move, joining the Scorch teams,>” Variks says, tapping fingers idly on his knee.

\--

“<There was nothing else I could do,>” Skolas points out dryly. “<Hardly bold when it was the only choice.>”

\--

“<Some people would make no choice rather than doing something bold.>” Variks tilts his head. “<Though I suppose it gets easier with practice, yes?>”

\--

“<Hrn.>”

It’s something like uneasiness. There’d been good reason to run, given that Skolas’s survival was thoroughly intertwined with the House’s continued stability.

It hadn’t made running easier. It hadn’t made leaving behind the Kaliks-Din feel like anything less than spinelessness. Skolas closes his eyes.

“<I’m not sure what I did was correct,>” he admits. “<If I was risking too much because I was too limited in my experiences to see another way out. I was a Scorch captain longer than I’ve been kell.>”

\--

Variks would lean in to show his interest, but the movement makes his torso twinge, so instead, he simply nods. “<As you said, there wasn’t much else to do. Evacuation had failed once; better to do what they did not expect. Especially when they did not expect _you_. And you knew what you were doing, yes?>”

\--

“<And if they had expected me?>” Skolas levels a tired look onto Variks. “<Perhaps it would have been wiser to try and stall than to take the battle to them. I was only fortunate that the Scorch team had been so competent.>”

\--

Variks raises a brow. “<As I said, you knew what you were doing, yes? Most people would find working with a team of strangers to be a challenge. You seemed quite comfortable on that livestream, as it were.>”

\--

That seems to give Skolas a pause, tipping his head to peer at Variks, a curious expression written over his face.

“<... I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover the teams had been streaming,>” he says thoughtfully.

\--

Variks’s brow rises higher. “<Oh?>”

\--

Adjusting his mantle, Skolas puffs, “<If I’d known I was being livestreamed, I would have put more effort into my performance.>”

\--

Variks tsks. “<I suppose they didn’t want to distract you, but still. Fairly rude not to alert you.>”

It’s a poorly kept secret, the livestreams that Scorch teams tend to broadcast during ship boardings. Unchoreographed, uncontrolled, and usually ending with blood. Variks doesn’t have much of a taste for them.

\--

“<They’d likely thought they were only streaming to a small audience aboard the Kaliks-Din and not to the entirety of the ship,>” Skolas chuckles, bobbing his head. “<I will make sure they’re not punished for the matter.>”

\--

“<I suspect someone higher up saw how well you were doing and decided to use the opportunity,>” Variks says, gingerly adjusting how he sits. “<If the rest of the House has yet to see that footage, they soon will.>”

\--

“<Certainly,>” Skolas says, twining the fingers of his lower hands together as he watches the edge of Variks’s blanket slip from the scribe’s movements. “<I hope it’s gruesome enough to entertain those left restless by the lack of bloodshed.>”

\--

“<It will certainly get the soldiers riled up,>” Variks smiles. “<An excellent reminder that you are powerful as well as discerning.>”

\--

“<And quite handsome.>” Skolas is smiling again, but there’s a wry note in there. He stares at Variks for a moment longer, fingers twitching -- before finally giving in and reaching out to gruffly tug the corner of that blanket back up.

\--

“<It —>” Variks starts, and falters when Skolas starts reaching towards him to... adjust his blanket?

Well, Wolves are rather… tactile folk. Variks clears his throat. “<It’s a boon for your public image, to be sure. And demoralizing for the Reef, if they know about it.>”

\--

Retracting his hand, Skolas returns to firmly pretending that he hadn’t just done that.

“<Speaking of the Reef...>” He resettles in his seat, mandibles pressed tight to his jaw. “<The weapons aboard the Reefship. They’re like nothing we’ve seen them use before.>”

\--

“<It stands to reason that they’d be turning their research efforts to new ways to surprise the Wolves,>” Variks says wryly.

\--

“<The splicers will need time to do a full analysis. We don’t have anything more than molecular traces of the actual projectiles.>”

Skolas’s eyes settle on the ceiling mandibles twisting discontentedly under his mask. 

“<Considering the timing, however, and the appearance of a never-before-seen gun design aboard the Reefship, signs seems to point to ‘yes’.>”

\--

Variks taps his fingers. “<No ammunition found aboard the Hlin?>”

\--

“<Nothing out of the ordinary. Standard Reef heavy turret munition, the same as they’ve always used.>” Skolas waves a hand in a vague gesture. “<Nothing that would have avoided getting mangled halfway through a ketch’s shields and hull.>”

\--

“<But the weapons,>” Variks frowns. “<Surely they need ammunition. Did they only have a few shots? Or did they jettison the remainder?>”

\--

Skolas shakes his head. “<Nothing that the servitors detected.>”

“<In fact, the most unusual element in all of this is the Techeun,>” he continues. “<They don’t often stray from Reef territories.>”

\--

“<Hm.>” Variks mulls this over for a moment, gaze distant.

“<Assuming that they were indeed unaware of your presence,>” he says slowly. “<A live weapons test, perhaps.>”

\--

“<Certainly looks like,>” Skolas says. “<A relatively small ketch and fleet: sizeable enough to test the full extent of the weapon and small enough to be disappeared quickly, even without jamming capabilities.>”

\--

“<That there was a tech witch aboard...>” Variks muses. “<Perhaps a paracausal weapon, then. Those shots were... improbable, even with inside information.>”

\--

“<The physics of it makes no sense otherwise,>” Skolas agrees. “<Even light doesn’t travel that fast and lasers would have had to burn through the ketch’s ablative shielding.>”

\--

Variks’s fingers drum on the edge of his chair. “<The Hygiea data did make reference to lost weapon technology,>” he muses. “<Perhaps they’ve dug it back up.>” 

Which validates Variks’s assumption that the Hygiea libraries weren’t irreplaceable. That would have been too much to hope for, if they’d razed it all those years ago.

\--

Scowl darkening, Skolas folds his hands together. “<From where? Their... ‘homelands’?>”

\--

“<One assumes.>” Variks tugs on his blanket. Now that Skolas drew his attention, he’s thinking about it. “<There have been remnants of impressive technology in Human ruins.>”

\--

Skolas studiously ignores Variks fussing with the blanket. Or at least he tries to.

“<And yet, nothing quite like the weapons of the Reef. It’s possible they cannot build any more of them, and it’s almost certain these weapons are rare... but what they _can_ use is devastating.>”

\--

“<It neatly explains why they would rather fight in a few massed battles,>” Variks says. Skolas is staring at his fussing, so he drops the blanket. “<With such devastating but rare weapons, they would want to make every engagement count.>”

\--

“<It makes our leaks more dire, too.>” Curling his hands into fists, Skolas sets his eyes on the far wall. “<If I had been a second later in dispatching those Reef soldiers, they could have simply used the weapon once more on our skiff and thrown the Wolves into further chaos.>”

The memory of unlit eyes staring up at him, alien bodies wearing the armor of dead soldiers flashing unbidden in his mind.

\--

“<Mm.>” Variks runs his fingers along the top edge of his veil, making it chime. “<We need to reverse-engineer what they’ve gotten from the leaks to pinpoint the vulnerabilities, whatever they may be. Basic knowledge, yes, ship schematics... but they also know fleet movements.>”

\--

“<Perhaps we create a situation for an intentional leak?>” The familiar ringing of chainmail is beginning to become oddly calming, but Skolas does not let it relax him. “<See what crops up and what doesn’t.>”

\--

Variks nods slowly, an approving expression on his face. “<...Yes, that could work quite nicely. Though we’ll need to avoid making the traitor wary. Whoever this leak is, they’re quite canny. Don’t want to run them off early, yes?>”

\--

“<Assuming they’re not blessed with servitor guidance,>” Skolas says, drawing a circle in the air with his lower hand. “<And thus less likely to spot large-scale, servitor-created patterns, perhaps we can conceal several pieces of data over different tracks spread out over several months. See what they do and do not pick up.>”

\--

“<The question,>” Variks sighs, “<Is whether the data should be real or not. Whether we should use low-value targets, for veracity. I think it wise, but a difficult decision.>”

\--

“<It’s this,>” Skolas says quietly. “<Or they find Aksor, or Kaliks-Major, or me. And then there will be very little left at all.>”

\--

Variks gestures resigned assent. “<Necessary, but unpleasant, yes?>”

\--

Skolas barks a sudden, harsh laugh.

“<More than anything,>” he says, smiling bitterly. “<This is the part I miss most about being a Scorch captain; the simplicity of throwing my own life into the fire. Instead, I sit here, calculating how best to endanger some poor dreg entrusted with a mission they cannot even know.>”

\--

“<‘The only way is forward’, yes?>” Expecting to die in any given boarding attempt, with the slim chance of returning for temporary glory. Very simple. Very straightforward. Yet here Skolas is, running a House before reaching six-dozen years of age. Variks can’t help a sad smile in return.

“<It is good that you think of these things,>” he says softly.

\--

“<....>”

Skolas shakes off the moroseness and pushes brusquely to his feet. He gives Variks a look, something between a glare and -- something else.

He properly tidies the edge of Variks’s blanket and then leaves with a sweep of his massive cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _""Prince Uldren discovered deep flaws in the Wolves' networks. A common Vandal's shiplink can be used to track fleet movements." —The Maraid"  
Gone to Ground -- Bounty.  
Loot Fallen Vandals, Wanted Fallen or Fallen Chests on Venus for Fallen Shiplinks._  
  
  
It's a little odd that the shiplinks are so supposedly vulnerable, considering the Wolves have, up until recently, mostly been warring with other Houses, who are similarly technologically advanced, _and_ have the assistance of literal machine gods, which the Reef do not have.  
  
Fortunately, knowing that the Maraid was "compiled by the Primarchs of the Reef Cryptarchy", we can take the description with a grain of salt! We headcanon that several factors contributed to the shiplink vulnerability during the Reef Wars. First, the Wolves do not have a prime, which means they're missing a considerable chunk of encryption capability. Second, the Reef has Misraaks, who undoubtedly told them how to use a shiplink, and how to interpret the information they were getting. Third, the Awoken already have so much paracausal space bullshit happening, that's probably a factor.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas gets some new rags.

Skolas looks at himself in the mirror and feels strange, somehow. He looks into the mirror and sees the glow of his ether tubes, orange as molten steel. The dark glossy fur of his mantle is so thick it makes his already massive stature even more imposing.

He turns and watches the drape of his cape. Untouched by years of use, the thick glimmersilk shines, lustrous under the light. The cloth was personally commissioned by Aksor and handwoven by a team of the most decorated weavers in the House. He can see the subtle contrast of textures in the blue patterning, the light catching them when he shifts. Interwoven with the white glimmersilk fibers is the platinum brocade that forms the symbol of his House.

He stares into the mirror a moment longer, his mind trying to connect himself to the person reflected there and not quite managing it.

Tipping his head and the massive painted crest of his new helmet, Skolas turns to peer down at Variks beside him.

“<...Well?>” he asks.

\--

No wonder the getup had taken so long, Variks thinks. The amount of work that must have gone into weaving glimmersilk of that fineness, crafting a realistic fur mantle out of thousands of extruded glimmer strands...

“<Very nice,>” Variks says approvingly. He’d been expecting something like Virixas’s garb, to be frank: overwrought, covered in ‘trophies’, garish. _This_ is reasonably flattering. The mantle frames Skolas’s head and keeps the enormous helmet from looking ridiculous. The orange ether lines add points of contrast, while the practical armor on his limbs emphasizes his powerful musculature. Appropriate raiment, for an active kell. Powerful yet restrained.

‘Restrained’ by Wolf tastes, that is.

\--

For some reason, that answer surprises Skolas. He stares at Variks for a moment longer before turning back to the mirror again, eyes narrowing.

“<... Thank you,>” he says, because it is appropriate. Then, clearing his throat, he straightens slightly.

\--

Variks tilts his head to one side. “<Do you have concerns, my kell?>”

\--

_Very nice_.

The compliment echoes inside his mind, and it draws something out from the settled silt of his thoughts, a warm glow that threatens to reach Skolas’s eyes. He doesn’t let it.

“<I suppose I wasn’t expecting something so... loud.>” Gesturing at the mirror, Skolas keeps his sight away from the scribe’s reflection. “<For something I am to wear daily.>”

\--

Variks shrugs, leaning on his staff as he runs a critical eye over Skolas’s cloak. “<I suppose it’s intended to be striking. I’m sure you don’t need to wear it daily if you do not wish to, my kell.>”

\--

“<I have my transition regalia,>” Skolas points out. “<But now that I look at this, it seems far more awkward by comparison.>”

\--

Variks waves a careless hand. “<Have Archon Aksor make another set,>” he says, deliberately airy.

\--

“<I just went through three hours of that dressmaking hell,>” Skolas gripes. “<I’m at _least_ waiting another month.>”

\--

Variks chuckles. “<Then you’re ‘stuck’ with this one, it seems.>”

\--

“<Rah.>” Making a point to adjust his mantle, Skolas dismisses the mirror with a wave, the reflective surface flickering off. He turns and moves to take his appropriate seat in the lounge and settles in, trying not to feel too out of place.

“<Anyways,>” he says. “<We’ve more important matters to discuss.>”

\--

“<Yes,>” Variks says, sobering. “<We do, yes.>” He takes his own usual seat, arranging his white sashes around him.

\--

“<We’ve narrowed down the list of possible sources for our leaks,>” Skolas says, watching the pale fabric settle around Variks’s waist. “<And none of them are good.>”

\--

Variks is familiar with them, but it is good for Skolas to process these thoughts aloud, so he nods to prompt him to continue.

\--

That silence still feels like condescension, but Skolas is familiar enough with Variks by now not to interpret it as such. At least, not so thoroughly as before. 

“<Most of the signs... are pointing to the shiplinks,>” he says, letting the idea settle in his mind, sorting through all the data Drevis had given him. “<The encryption of which were previously overseen by the prime.>”

\--

“<Also widely distributed, and infrequently monitored,>” Variks notes grimly. “<Seeing as they are most often only used to coordinate crew pick-ups, yes?>”

\--

Pressing his hand to his mask, Skolas inclines his head in agreement.

“<Always the most innocuous of things.>” He nudges his connection with Kaliks Major then, feeling the servitor turn their attention onto him. “<And to fix this, we might well need a complete hardware upgrade.>”

\--

“<If the aliens could exploit it,>” Variks muses, smoothing his sash over his lap, “<Other parties could as well. A good investment, yes?>”

\--

“<My main concern is how long the upgrade process will take,>” Skolas says. “<Secondary concern being how many appropriately trained technicians we have available to install it.>”

\--

Variks taps his fingers on his belt, thinking. “<Are there any stopgap measures?>” He asks. “<Software upgrades, requirements for authentication before connecting to the fleet servers...>”

\--

“<It sounds like we’ll be cycling encryptions under Kaliks Major’s guidance until the more permanent solution is executed.>”

\--

Variks nods, expression grave. “<If an identification protocol is attached, we might even be able to find the shiplink the traitor is using and remove its permissions.>”

\--

“<...I’m surprised you don’t hang around splicers more,>” Skolas says, turning his curious gaze onto Variks.

\--

Shrugging, Variks says, “<I’m sure we’d enjoy each other’s company, but historically the primes and archons of the Houses have not welcomed the input or involvement of scribes.>”

\--

“<Why is that?>” 

Little glimpses here and there into the pieces of a House lost entirely. Skolas isn’t sure why he’s only beginning to care now when it’s nearly all gone.

\--

“<I don’t know for sure. I would ask Archon Aksor,>” Variks says, folding his lower hands in his lap. “<But perhaps it has something to do with our focus on the mundane, rather than the divine.>”

Or a desire to operate without oversight, or witnesses, back when Judgment was trusted to arbitrate between Houses. Was that a mere few hundred years ago?

\--

“<There is no theocratic element to House Judgment?>” Skolas asks.

\--

“<We follow the prime of our host House,>” Variks responds. “<To presume to give holy advice would be sacrilegious, yes?>”

\--

A trust in another House so complete as to have no archon, kell, or prime of their own, no way even to continue without being at their mercy.

Skolas tries to imagine it, but he finds it difficult. Impossible. Why? Why would you entrust your very people to the hands of others? Why trust in a people not your own?

He stares wordlessly at Variks, his hands clasped together atop his thighs.

\--

Variks raises a brow. It’s getting quite the workout with Skolas. “<I am sensing more questions, yes?>” He says tactfully.

\--

_Why did you trust us with your existence?_

Skolas is silent for a moment longer, feeling for the thread of consequence, following it through in his mind. At the end of the thread is grief, the death-white of Variks’s mourning sashes.

He carefully lets it go.

“<Later, perhaps,>” he answers. “<We’ve a meeting to attend soon, and I have every intention of grabbing a nap.>”

\--

Variks’s mandibles tap his jaw under his mask, but he doesn’t press the subject. “<Wise, my kell,>” he says, straight-faced.

\--

“<The door is locked to my code.>” Skolas is already settling in deeper into his chair. “<You’re safe to nap as well.>”

Unspoken is the oddity of trusting Variks enough not to try anything in his sleep.

\--

“<Why, thank you, my kell,>” Variks says, eyes narrowing in a grin. It’s one of Skolas’s unexpected idiosyncrasies, napping just before meetings.

And, Variks suspects, something Skolas wouldn’t do in the presence of other people.

Perhaps he’ll close his eyes for a bit. Perhaps he won’t. Either way, he settles in to review reports first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"It's a paradise. Carefully tended lakes and rivers, water everywhere, wind their way between fields of lush iridescent crops and into groves of starkly colored trees. Every inch of the land seems engineered, brushed by a sculptor's hand for form and function both." -- Mystery: The Vault of Glass grimoire card_  
  
  
Judging by the impractically needle-thin teeth eliksni have, they're at least primarily carnivores. Additionally, said teeth seem like those of deep-sea carnivorous fish, the sorts of animals that need to get a good grip on something squishy and slippery.  
  
Therefore, we think homeworld eliksni ranched most of their food... which means we headcanon those beautiful iridescent crops to be textiles! Eliksni flax! Imagine!  
  
Of course, there isn't much space for fiber crops on colony ketches, so we figure organic clothing has become a luxury reserved for the elite. Everyone else's clothing is made out of extruded glimmer, kind of like polyester. Skolas, of course, has been a pretty frugal kell, so his one indulgence with his clothes (for now) is getting a completely new set, instead of hand-me-downs. Live a little, Skolas!  
  
  
_"The programmable matter called 'Glimmer' serves as one of the City's basic currencies. With the right inputs and an energy source, Glimmer can be transmuted into nearly anything." -- Glimmer grimoire card_


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas has a nightmare. The Wolves find the Sophia, and Cocytus.

The sound of his own agonized breath echoes in his mask. A wall of utter noiselessness fills the nothing left behind by the escaping atmosphere; a dimming of sound as if someone had turned down the volume on the entire universe. He sees a glimmer of stars from under the strut pinning him, so bright and clear that the light threatens to cut into him, the gaze of a merciless end.

“<H-help,>” he whispers into the comms, whispers into the ears of thousands of corpses, his beacon blinking for thousands of unseeing eyes.

“<Help.>” His voice is not his own but that of thousands speaking out as the air in their masks turns to poison against their tongues. He feels the ether grow thin in thousands, no, millions of dying lungs; he reaches out into the dark with ten thousand trembling arms, grasping for the pale, shattered pieces of Ceres, pleading for salvation.

“<_Help_.>”

He sees the starlight twist, its pale glow splitting into a shimmering spectrum of color as reality twists around an impossible mass.

And he wakes. 

Skolas stares at the ceiling of his chambers. One by one, he loosens his fingers from the death grip they’d formed around his sheets. Slowly, he reaches out to undo the safety net holding him to his nest.

He pushes up until he sits on the side of the bed, feet pressed to the floor, letting the cool sensation soothe away the lingering sense of surreality. Then he stands and starts the process of swapping his sleeping suit for one of his daily undersuits. 

As always, the room responds to his waking. His wardrobe slides out of the wall and screens flicker to life around him with reports: his host ketch's status, the condition of the fleets, reports from his nobles.

Throughout his routine, Skolas feels the weight of the nightmare fade. Each piece of armor, each minor chore, is another fragment for him to weld into a barrier in his mind. It fades almost entirely when he kneels beside his bed for the morning prayers, little more than glimmering afterimages behind his closed eyes.

A quick maintenance of his sidearm and arc blade and then, with a final glance back at his room, Skolas pauses on the threshold, glancing at the projected starscape on the far walls. He scowls at the stars twinkling against the milky way's brilliance -- and abruptly waves the projections off. As his room descends into a softer blackness, he strides out into the hallway.

\--

Variks’s day starts just before Terix Minor’s gentle chime; he’s woken to it for so many years that his body knows to preempt it.

After morning prayers and ether sacrament, they go through Variks's notes together alongside his schedule for the day, determining what reports Variks needs to have on hand to advise his kell in the upcoming meetings.

Variks isn't wearing his full mourning garb anymore, mainly because he's always concerned he'll snag the elaborate embroidery. Still, the white sashes edged with green serve just as well. Sometimes he catches Wolf nobles staring at them, and they look awfully uncomfortable when they glance away. Good.

It occurs to Variks, as he's walking to his first meeting with Skolas, that before this year, he never spent this _much_ of each day with his advisee. Usually, he would schedule more time to do personal reading, or weaving, or... visiting other scribes.

Well, Variks thinks as he arrives at the small meeting room, that explains it. And Skolas has been enjoyable to work with lately, and the House’s political situation is still delicate, so what’s the harm, really?

\--

Skolas arrives at about the same time that Variks does, commanding the doors apart for them. 

“<Scribe Variks,>” he says by way of greeting before stepping into the room, appropriately formal as always. Glancing over his shoulder, he adds. “<Did you rest well?>”

\--

“<I did, my kell,>” Variks says, before looking up at Skolas. His eyes narrow slightly. “<Did you?>”

\--

There's a lie pressing against the back of his teeth, so routine that Skolas nearly says it without a thought. However, at Variks's look, he pauses, head drawn back and mandibles clamped against his jaw.

"<I slept enough,>" he says blasely, pulling out Variks's seat for him.

\--

“<Did you,>” Variks says, but his tone is gentler as he takes the seat Skolas offers him.

\--

The holotable lights up, showing glowing blue symbols of connection-readiness in front of each seat. It is still ten minutes until the meeting begins, and not all of the links are ready to initiate.

Skolas's eyes don't seem to focus on them when he moves to take his own seat, however. 

"<I don't believe I've made it a habit to lie to you,>" he points out, pulling up his screens.

\--

“<You have not, my kell,>” Variks agrees, pulling up his own. “<But you _are_ in the habit of avoiding uncomfortable topics, yes?>”

\--

"<And there are many of those,>" Skolas says, folding his upper hands together, his lower hands tidying the drape of his cloak.

\--

“<There are.>” Variks sends a few relevant reports to Skolas and folds his own hands. “<Luckily for you, I am trained in talking about all of them, yes?>”

Given the hints Variks has picked up on, he would guess that Skolas is having traumatic nightmares that are interrupting his sleep. A reasonably pedestrian topic, as uncomfortable topics go.

\--

"<Why is it important for you to know?>" Skolas asks, feeling a sudden spark of temper. Variks had claimed health, of course, but he doesn't entirely understand the point of confiding quite so much. Especially not something so routine as unsettled sleep

\-- 

“<I suppose it’s not urgent,>” Variks says calmly, looking Skolas in the eye. “<But some burdens, no matter how small, are lighter when shared, and you have much to burden you already. Important weights, yes?>”

\--

"<....>"

Skolas checks his clock, his face still set in a frown. Hn. Fine. Perhaps something to pass this bit of time.

"<I've been having dreams about the Scatter,>" he says blandly, splitting off one of his screens.

\--

Variks blinks -- he hadn’t expected Skolas to actually open up -- and continues sorting through reports. Scrutiny will likely make Skolas retreat. “<Ah,>” he says.

\--

"<They seem to be getting more bizarre as time goes on.>" He tips his head at Variks, watching the scribe's face. "<Distance from the event, I suppose.>"

\--

Variks nods, glancing up at Skolas and then back to his screens. “<Bizarre?>”

To test whether they've successfully patched the shiplink vulnerabilities, they're setting up carefully orchestrated resource-gathering operations and raids — choice targets for the Reef, choice opportunities to foil the Wolves. Only Skolas's inner circle, and the Silent Fang, will know that there is an ulterior motive.

\--

"<More surreal, I suppose,>" Skolas specifies. "<Like I'm experiencing more than my own events.>"

\--

"<Organic minds are better suited for remembering an event's emotions than the specifics of it,>" Variks murmurs, interlacing his fingers.

After all, he still dreams of Skolas advancing on him after the attack on 6 Hebe, with bare hands instead of sabers, bare hands which wrap around his chest and squeeze until Variks pops. Or perhaps squeeze just enough to remind him of the cage of girders that had kept Variks from flying into the vacuum during the Scatter.

\--

The little movement makes Skolas slant a mandible and turn away.

"<What an obnoxious function,>" he mutters as he finishes setting up his notes.

\--

Variks chuckles. “<Keeps us humble in our mundanity, yes?>”

\--

"<Hrn.>" That about sums up his opinion on the matter, doesn't it?

There's a little bout of silence as Skolas reviews his notes from the previous meeting, looking over the data gathered from nets they'd cast out through the shiplinks.

And then.

"<I'm glad you survived,>" Skolas says, so soft it's barely audible.

\--

Variks looks up, surprised. “<My kell?>” He blurts, before he can think to be more subtle.

\--

Skolas doesn't look at him. "<Take that as you will.>"

The last of the connections flicker to readiness, and he initiates the conference.

* * *

The Wolves find something strange at the edge of the belt.

Floating in the vacuum is a Human ship painted in black and white. 

The life support functions are working within parameters that are normal for Human ships. There is no breach in the hull, no pathogens, no sign of radiation. Water recycling is intact, and food stores seem sufficient for months of travel. And yet, there is no one aboard.

It gets stranger when they pull the surveillance footage out of the ship’s databanks. The ship was flown by a crew of seven. They were herded towards a derelict station by the Reef, their long-range communications jammed.

And then as the station got close enough to dock...

Nothing.

They find the station itself locked in heliocentric orbit with the help of the ship’s last bearings, back when it had evidently been orbiting Ceres. Within, they find a mummified Human corpse curled on the floor, hands clasped around the gray shell of a dead Spiritor.

\--

Variks frowns at the live feeds on his screen, streamed from the cameras worn by several of the salvage crew's vandals. The crew is unusually quiet, plainly unsettled by the silent, sterile Human halls -- and it _is_ clearly a Human station, despite its eeriness.

Judging by the Human’s undisturbed corpse, they have been there for several years at the very least, possibly since the Earth Humans started getting jumpships up and running again. And nothing has disturbed the ship or the station since then? In the Reef’s territory, in the middle of a war?

The insignias upon the ship and the corpse’s garb look distinctive. Variks queues up a search.

\--

It seems trying to put a timestamp on the corpses themselves is proving to be a futile matter. The scanners simply fritz and spit out improbable things that change with every try.

Skolas watches the crew murmur amongst themselves, his expression morbidly fascinated.

"<Is it just me,>" he begins, gesturing idly at the feed. "<Or is that one of the Thieves’ City's ships?>"

\--

Variks wordlessly swipes an image over to Skolas’s screen. A spy-satellite capture of a City ship dock. A fair portion of the ships bear the black and white sigils.

“<The markings of one of the City’s Houses, I would guess,>” Variks says.

\--

"<So.>" Leaning back in his seat, Skolas steeples his fingers together. "<It looks very much like the Reef led this crew to their deaths upon that station. And if the Reef has done that, then either they are very shoddy allies or....>"

\--

“<This could have happened before a treaty with the Thieves’ City,>” Variks points out. “<The price of their assistance against the Wolves could have been a cessation of such attacks.>”

\--

"<The recording of the Reef herding this ship was dated to three years ago,>" Skolas says, resting his chin guard atop a palm in bemusement. "<Assuming that log date isn't scrambled.>"

\--

“<There do seem to be some difficulties,>” Variks says dryly, eyes flicking across the multiple different readings. Half of the timestamps are corrupted. “<Another paracausal weapon?>”

\--

"<It seems to be never-ending with them,>" Skolas remarks, equally dry. "<I'm more surprised this is a Thieves' ship, really. They're rare as it is: is the Reef intentionally hunting them?>"

\--

Variks leans back in his chair as well, frowning. “<They’re certainly more vulnerable than the average Wolfship,>” he says softly. “<Look: hardly any weaponry. They were clearly relying on speed and maneuverability. And Reef Galliots are exceptionally maneuverable.>”

\--

"<Poor stealth and no weaponry. A foolish combination on a good day.>"

Crossing his lower arms, Skolas watches the salvage team begin preparing the ship for stasis. They'll drag it to one of the mobile storage yards for a more in-depth investigation without having to worry about full quarantine.

\--

“<The Humans aren’t generally stupid,>” Variks says, still frowning. “<And this clearly isn’t a House in ill repute, if it has a space in the City’s hangars. So why would they be out here? And why would the Awoken care?>”

\--

"<Scavenging?>" Skolas suggests. "<We have reports of advanced Human technology on a monthly basis. They must be after something of interest if they're willing to risk the Wolves. And the Reef.>"

\--

Variks nods slowly. "<Though Earth was richer in salvage than almost anywhere but Mars, it's been picked clean by now, or claimed by another House. And they need resources to rebuild their City.>"

\--

"<A gamble they're poorly equipped for but have no choice to commit.>"

Skolas almost feels sorry for these Humans.

Almost. 

"<And now they become the victims of some truly unfortunate circumstances. It's rather funny how often the Reef leaves us with yet more questions.>"

\--

As he looks at the live feeds, Variks’s gaze darkens. “<It does seem to be one of their primary tactics, my kell.>”

An alien kell, come to conquer the Wolves of Ceres by knocking them down and waiting for them to whittle each other to nothing while they break their oaths to the Kings. A Thieves' ship, floating derelict and unscavenged in the Reef when the Awoken aren't flush with resources themselves and they'd certainly known it was there. Wish-dragon bones tucked away in a household shrine.

Not for the first time, Variks gets the feeling of many-toothed jaws around them, waiting to snap shut.

“<I am curious about this Spiritor,>” Variks says after a long silence. “<Inactive, but intact?>”

\--

“<Yes.>” Skolas draws his attention away from Variks’s expression in the periphery of his vision. With a gesture, he pulls up the relevant data from the feed.

“<Perfectly intact, even.>”

\--

Variks’s brow rises up towards his forehead as he reads the data. Spiritors are as opaque to scans as servitors are, but they should still be able to detect signs of external trauma, injury, energy-sapping. There is nothing. It is as if the thing just... turned off.

“<And no signs of damage on the Human corpses, either,>” he murmurs.

\--

"<We still need to rule out starvation and dehydration, but preliminary scans point to no.>"

Skolas almost laughs, but the sound dries out on his tongue.

"<It's been a while since the House has faced a mystery such as this. It'll keep the splicers well occupied.>"

\--

“<It’ll certainly keep _me_ occupied,>” Variks mutters, squinting at the screen. It puts him in mind of the strange readings the Wolf servitors would pick up while the fleets were in the Jovians. Hardly perceptible, easily dismissed... save for the occasional ship disappearances, the infrequent crashes and malfunctions.

Troubling.

\--

"<Here.>"

And abruptly, all the data that had previously been locked to kell permissions are open to Variks. Skolas doesn't even look up from his feed.

"<I'm sure it can't hurt to have more eyes on the matter.>"

\--

All the accesses that are Variks’s due, that Virixas had never bothered to grant him; Skolas gives them with no ceremony at all.

Skolas is a very strange person, sometimes. 

“<Thank you, my kell,>” Variks says, nodding to him despite his supposed inattention. “<I will make good use of this for you.>”

\--

"<See that you do.>" There's an odd edge to Skolas's voice somehow. He mercilessly flattens it out before speaking again.

"<We've Mars to sort through in a few minutes. Keep yourself occupied until then.>"

\--

“<I believe I shall be able to,>” Variks murmurs, watching Skolas curiously.

\--

If Skolas notices Variks's gaze, he's very studiously pretending not to. His screens are already beginning to fill up with various Mars-related documents, fingers idly manipulating the data.

\--

Variks watches him for a moment longer, just a hint of a crease between his eyes.

Hm.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"I am a marvel with ten thousand arms." -- Dreg's Promise, sidearm_  
  
  
Historically, the Reef has not been very friendly to the City. On top of their existence being a general mystery, up until the Wolves Rebellion, the Reef seemingly had a policy of punishing incursions with death -- as attested by the fate of the Dead Orbit ship _Sophia_.  
  
  
_"Seven point five days ago; that was when the Sophia dropped into the Belt. They saw us at once. We dropped and the alarms went off and that was the end, that was the end right then, but they let us go on for another seven-point-five days, didn't they? The alarms. Hostile scan detected. An Awoken ship had us in its sights, just a couple hundred kilometers away. Like it had been waiting for us. It could have wiped us out of space right then but instead it crippled our engines and our comms and then for days it played with us, like a cat, we limped half-way round the Belt and it was always there...  
  
We abandoned the Sophia one-point-five days ago. We jumped ship for A-113."  
\-- An Arach of Dead Orbit, RECORD 978-ECLIPSE-4165, Ghost Fragment: Dead Orbit_


	29. Chapter 29

He stares up at Jupiter rising, enormous and brilliant over the horizon, its reflection cast perfectly in the windless waters. He tastes the metal cutting through his tongue. He tastes his own ether wisping through his teeth, the agony of trying to close his maw around the blade.

There is something beyond the mirror-calm horizon. He can hear it, whispering to him under the all-consuming loom of the gas giant draped over it.

_Vengeance_, it promises.

He tries to push towards it, every burning bone and ligament in his body screaming for it, straining against the tethers binding his feet together, smoking slaver dripping from his aching jaws. Water rushes around him as he thrashes in the crashing waves. The chain securing his bindings to stone sparks and screeches as it scrapes against the unyielding grit.

_Strike them down, o greatest of wolves._

\--

He stands, staring out at the endless stretch of space. He tastes the ether trickling from the stump of his wrist. He feels the water lapping against his ankles.

There’s something he has forgotten. 

Blood on the wind, unfairly drawn. He steps, and a ripple races across the waters, improbably far. A wave intercepts it. His eyes follow the path to its source, farther, farther...

\--

Smoke and steam rise over the water in the distance, the plumes billowing upwards in a nearly straight pillar without any wind to sweep them away. The orange glow of embers tinges the base of the black column, flickering with the movement of foaming waves. The very air warps around its presence, the dense weight of a vast fire on the horizon, ash in the lungs, a lick of hot soot.

\--

Dread seeps into his lungs (why?), and he hurries towards that tower of smoke, stumbling over the waves, holding his useless arm close to his chest with his lower hand. Too long, too long —

\--

The fire casts an impossibly vast shadow against the smoke. A long snout breaks through the seething clouds, black as the sky, so black it sheens blue. The massive jaws are held agape by a smoke-blackened saber, sizzling with lightning. The creature’s mandibles spread wide, teeth that would easily crush the bones of gods dripping with sizzling strings of firey spittle.

It howls. Howls into the vast, uncaring ocean, and the sound is thunder, shattering the very air, the deafening boom of space and time threatening to rattle apart.

\--

He staggers to a halt just a few steps from the smoke, the vibrations of that howl shaking the ocean under his feet.

_Friend, I am so sorry._

\--

_LIAR_

Chitin straining, breath heaving, the titan tosses its head. The smoke spreads just enough to reveal four blazing eyes, a massive mane of bristles.

_I WILL TEAR YOU APART_

\--

_Please._ His arm throbs, seeing the blood and slaver pouring from between the beast’s teeth, the wicked saber thrust through the roof of his mouth. The heat prickles at his skin. 

_Sit_. His good upper arm reaches up, beseeching. _I will take that out_.

\--

_LIAR_, the titan hisses again, but it’s broken and lost and tired, ether pale against the smoke as it ripples over his upper teeth.

_LIAR_, he whispers, softer, agony shining through, the glowing, delicate binding creaking around the thinner plates of his throat as he sags. The massive head bows, likely out of exhaustion rather than acquiescence.

\--

No more. He refuses to have a reason to lie anymore.

The impact of the beast’s head on the water sends waves splashing up his legs. He pays it no heed, hissing in sympathy as he comes closer; the wounds look even worse from here.

His upper-left hand settles on the beast’s snout. It is so hot it nearly burns. _I am sorry. I am_.

\--

A low, agonized keen answers him over the sizzle of water boiling, the plating under the hand rippling, half a sluggish snarl, half a grimace of pain. The tower of burning, seething suffering grows oddly pliant with the gentle touch, blue eyes dimming.

\--

The strands have dug into the beast’s skin, rubbing it thin and raw where he’s strained against the bindings. Is this justice? He doesn’t know.

The hilt of the saber is lodged behind the beast’s lower teeth. _Open your jaws further, and I can get this out._

\--

A breath, sharp, cutting off the trailing wheeze of pain. The beast’s four eyes narrow and then slide slowly closed. The silence that follows is borne of utter, exquisite, searing pain as the colossal jaws slowly, slowly part. All that fills the silence is the gruesome squelch of metal moving through flesh.

\--

His hand moves against the beast’s muzzle even as it slides agonizingly open, trying fruitlessly to soothe. _You’re doing well._

His lower hands move to grasp the spit-slicked hilt, ether spilling from his stump wrist as he anchors his fingers on the saber’s handle. He has to thrust the sword back into the roof of the beast’s mouth to get it clear of his teeth, but once the pommel is over the sharp points, he tugs the blade free, letting it fall and vanish into the water.

\--

The _sound_ the beast makes. A low cry of pain so pure and profound it’s barely even animal. Ether fills the air in a thick haze, so bright it nearly drowns out the smoke, and the creature sags against him, snout pushing against his chest as it bleeds.

\--

He cradles the beast’s jaw with his lower arms, staggering under its weight. His own blood is a mere trickle in the air from where his stump rests on the beast’s snout. _There. There we are._

\--

_IT HURTS_

The horizon is so far away, still beckoning, still glimmering, but the siren song is drowned out by the gentle embrace. Exhaustion seeping into its every bone, the beast heaves, whimpering with every breath.

_IT HURTS SO MUCH_

\--

_It will heal._ He hopes. He very much hopes. _I will be here. I will help._

\--

_I WILL KILL ALL OF THEM_

The titan’s jaws hang loose, sore from eons of fighting the blade, tongue lolling, spit dripping, bursting into flames before hitting the water’s surface.

\--

_Later._ The sparking spit bites at his thighs, but he does not flinch. Just rests his hand on his snout, rests his head on his brow. _Rest awhile. Build your strength._

\--

_IT’S ALL LOST_, the giant whispers.

_SO MUCH... LOST_

\--

A gentle scoff. _You still fight, yes? So, not all._

His wrist bleeds. He cannot blame the beast for hopelessness.

\--

_Variks_

So soft it could have been mistaken for a gasp.

_Variks_

\--

_What?_

Variks blinks at the ceiling above his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::3c


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skolas and Variks go to a party.

Another ketch has been resurrected from the dead. The third one the Wolves have been able to reclaim from the Scatter’s remnants, and possibly the last.

Still, the Wolves celebrate as they do for every resurrection, firm in their conviction that more reclamations are to come. After the archon and the kell address the House, the procession takes itself to the nobles’ lounge aboard the Kaliks-Fel.

Of course, once the initial joy of the celebration wears off, Skolas finds himself slowly drowning in the tedium of the Wolven court.

Most noble functions are boringly benign. They mill around the lounge, chatting idly with each other, dressed up in their crispest formal wear, their fanciest cloaks, their nicest trophies. They imbibe the richest ether available to their stations while gentle music drifts through the room -- and they gossip.

Machine, do they ever _gossip_.

Skolas watches the proceedings with poorly concealed boredom from his chaise lounge, a Kellsguard on either side. Drevis is brooding to his right, and Variks stands on his left. For the most part, the nobles have the sense to leave him alone, save the several ambitious courtiers who have tried to ply him with flirting and rumors.

They’ve all rejoined their little posses empty-handed: the tedium is making Skolas’s temper shorter than usual, and his glaring helps move them on their way. Trying to distract himself from the soul-deep temptation of simply leaving to do reports, he turns to the more receptive of his current company.

“<There’s been talk of a Reef monster disrupting our mining operations.>” Skolas idly rests his chin atop his knuckles, peering at Variks. He is dressed in lighter armor today: layered textiles bound together with glue, the topmost layer showing off a two-tone, blue-gray twill weave with circular designs embroidered in white. Draped over his shoulders is a well-worn shawl of glimmersilk, one he’s had since his high barony and finds himself reluctant to part with out of plain familiarity.

\--

"<A Reef monster?>" Variks answers, half on autopilot, before finishing his scan of the room for other foolish hangers-on and turning his full attention to Skolas. “<Is that what they’re calling it now?>”

\--

“<There is truly no end to the creativity of bored skiff crews,>” Skolas intones, peering sideways at Variks. “<But it is becoming a real problem. Our glimmer stores are still recovering, and we cannot have this... _ridiculousness_ distracting our mining crews.>”

\--

Variks raises a brow back. “<Surely they should be able to deal with one Reef operative with a primitive weapon. What has been stopping them?>”

\--

“<The primitive weapon keeps punching holes through skiff gun turrets.>” Folding his lower hands together over his lap, Skolas turns his eyes back towards the crowds.

\--

“<I stand corrected,>” Variks says dryly. “<Though skiff gun turrets aren’t known for being particularly well-armored.>”

He tilts his head, watching Skolas. “<This is the same operative that occasionally pops up in the Hildians, yes?>”

\--

“<The very same,>” Skolas says, watching as one of the nobles try their luck flirting with Pirsis instead. “<Very busy, for a single Reef soldier.>”

\--

“<Busy indeed,>” Variks muses. In the distance, Pirsis, in contrast to Drevis’s stony mien, is now looming gleefully over her admirer. That baroness surely knew what she was getting into. Hopefully, this won’t end poorly.

“<A personal enforcer of their kell, perhaps?>”

\--

“<If they were of such a station, why are they chasing after mere mining crews?>” They are certainly not a low-level grunt, given the power of their armament. But interrupting mining operations is a job more suited for footsoldiers.

\--

“<For fun?>” Variks chuckles, then sobers. “<Likely an ulterior motive, then, yes?>”

Pirsis is now leering at the baroness with an expression of great interest, and the baroness isn’t backing away. Perhaps Pirsis _will_ be leaving with a new... friend.

\--

“<Always an ulterior motive.>”

Next to him, Skolas can feel Drevis’s attention shift, Pirsis’s clear interest piquing her curiosity. Careful to mute his amusement, Skolas sips a breath of ether from his cylinder, letting the pleasant taste-scent of it wash over his tongue. Whoever distilled this ether had carefully woven subtle notes of smoke and metal into it. It’s quite lovely.

“<They’re still chasing Beltrik’s fleet through the Hildians, even knowing now that I am not usually hidden on his ketches.>”

\--

“<It shows an appropriate level of wariness for Beltrik’s cunning,>” Variks says. “<For all they know, the intel that you are not amongst the Hildians is a ruse by this point, now that they have a confirmed sighting of you.>”

The baron has shown a remarkable intuition for the aliens’ assumptions in his strategies. It would be like him to move Skolas to the Hildians now. Of course, he hasn’t, but the Paladins don’t know that.

\--

Sighing, Skolas lets himself settle deeper into his lounge.

“<I trust Beltrik entirely,>” he says softly. “<And he undoubtedly sees this peculiarity with more clarity than I do. I just can’t help but be wary.>”

\--

“<It is wise to be so,>” Variks says, readjusting in his own seat. “<But there is very little you can do that you are not already doing, yes?>”

The baroness that Pirsis is flirting with -- Desik? Tesik? Something like that -- has daringly moved closer into Pirsis’s personal space, sending a murmur through the crowd. The court has been starved for gossip given Skolas’s disinterest in toying with his nobles’ affections, Variks thinks wryly.

\--

“<Hm.>” It’s difficult to do nothing, even when nothing is what might be most helpful.

It’s doubly difficult to do nothing when he’s enduring a function that seems entirely meant for doing _nothing_. Even the baroness’s expert seduction of Pirsis is barely elevating his mood, but he can’t leave now. It would send an unintentional message of disapproval.

“<Let’s talk about something lighter, how about?>” he says, idly swirling the ether in his cylinder.

\--

“<Certainly,>” Variks says, eyeing Skolas knowingly. His kell is ill-suited to a routine of indolence, it seems.

\--

“<I had a dream last night,>” Skolas begins, taking another breath of ether. “<I dreamt I was a wolf. Isn’t that peculiar?>”

\--

“<A wolf?>” Variks teases. “<Are you not a Wolf?>”

\--

“<I will flip you out of that chair, don’t you test me,>” he puffs, but there’s a smile in his eyes.

\--

Variks chuckles. (And isn’t it odd, how easy it now is to laugh around the kell who had threatened to kill him.)

\--

Skolas’s smile brightens somehow, softening around the edges. “<But yes. A wolf. I dreamt that I was a wolf and that I was chained to a rock in the middle of... a sea, I think. A shallow sea.>”

\--

Variks opens his mouth, then closes it again, a crease between his brows. Why does that sound familiar? “<Curious. You were the wolf?>”

\--

“<Yes. There was something over the horizon. A voice.>” Skolas’s gaze grows distant as he taps his chin. “<A promise, perhaps. But I was distracted from my struggle by something. Someone?>”

\--

(A vast, endless ocean.)

“<Where was this... sea?>” Variks asks, tilting his head in Skolas’s direction. No. Surely just an error of memory.

\--

“<One of the Jovian moons, perhaps?>” Skolas peers curiously at him. “<I remember seeing Jupiter fill up the skies.>”

\--

Variks tries to school his disquieted expression back into one of polite interest. It almost works. “<Fascinating. What distracted you?>”

\--

That odd expression. Forced neutrality? Skolas notices, of course, but he does not ask. Instead, he pauses, a strange feeling washing over him, the taste-memory of ether on his tongue.

“<A vandal,>” he says and realizes that he’s whispering. “<He was missing an arm.>”

\--

“<Hand,>” Variks corrects, before his throat locks up. That... doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t make sense.

Why does he know Skolas’s dream?

\--

“<... Hand.>” It’s so quiet it’s barely more than a vibration in the air between them. “<Yes. A hand.>”

(A gentle touch, fingers stroking over his snout and slowly draining the pain from him.)

“<Such a peculiar dream,>” Skolas murmurs airlessly.

\--

“<Yes,>” Variks says, then, louder, “<Yes, quite peculiar.>” 

(A scarred, wounded beast, whispering his name like a prayer.)

Variks casts his gaze around the room, desperate for a distraction from the sudden yawning vertigo. “<Baroness Desik and Baroness Pirsis seem to have reached an agreement,>” he says, brisk and a little strained.

\--

Skolas turns his gaze to find Desik all but draped over Pirsis, and the sudden swing in mood is enough to give him whiplash. He sits there, stunned back into normalcy, blinking the endless ocean from his eyes.

“<They certainly have,>” he croaks.

\--

Variks’s thoughts run in circles, utterly gridlocked by the impossibility of the conversation they just had. Surely they were just speaking of vague nothings. Surely they did not share a _dream_.

“<I wish them luck,>” he says, even-toned once again.

\--

“<Yes,>” Skolas agrees, because it is all he can do. “<Yes. May the Machine grace them in their endeavors.>”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >::3c


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolves find a surprise on 88 Thisbe.

Something happened to 88 Thisbe. It’s pure luck that the Wolves find the station’s corpse, alerted by the empty, drifting ships outside it and the barest electrical readings from the failing life support system.

There are no web defenses to bypass, no soldiers, no fight. Even the station’s automatic security remains dormant when scouts carefully set their feet upon the ghostly remains.

They find no signs of life at all. It’s not until hours into the investigation that a team opens the doors to a small storeroom to find a cluster of Awoken spawn huddling within.

Thus begins the chain: the team’s captain sends the discovery to their high captain, inquiring what to do with the development. A brief debate ends with the spawn in cryo. The high captain then sends an inquiry to their baron, which results in the cryo units being loaded onto the ketch. The baron then sends a query to High Baroness Skriviks, who promptly arranges a call with Skolas.

Skolas takes one look at the list of the cryopods’ contents, his face set into a rictus of something unreadable and awful.

“<Kill them.>”

\--

“<My kell,>” Variks says in an undertone, “<What?>”

\--

That seems to shake Skolas out of the red mood that had overtaken him.

“<Wait,>” he says to Skriviks, the baroness blinking slowly at him, confusion written throughout her expression. “<Wait. Hold them in cryo. I need to give this more thought.>”

The screen winks out, and Skolas sits back in his chair, reaching up to cover his face with a hand.

\--

Variks breathes. “<My kell,>” he continues, more measured, “<I would hear your thoughts on this manner.>”

\--

“<I have no thoughts,>” Skolas hisses, simmering rage poisoning the edges of his voice.

\--

“<...>” Well, they seem to have hit a tripmine. “<In that case, I would hear your reasons for disposing of a valuable source of ransom.>”

\--

Skolas slams a palm against the tabletop. “<I have no reasons either!>”

\--

“<Then,>” Variks says, gentling his voice even further, “<I would hear what troubles you.>”

\--

There is no immediate answer. Skolas struggles to pull his scattered composure together, the flashfire guilt of having lost control burning through him. He stands abruptly, unable to remain seated, mandibles grinding against his jaw.

“<Don’t you wish for them to die?>” he asks, voice hushed with strain. “<Don’t you wish death on those who stole everything from you? Even for a second?>”

\--

A soothing agreement is on the tip of Variks’s tongue, but — He stops and thinks. Does he?

Unbidden, he thinks of Mavaks-4’s transmission. What had he wished, when the grief was freshest?

“<I don’t know,>” he says slowly. “<I’ve never thought about it that way, my kell.>”

\--

That seems to drain the fight out of Skolas, somehow. He stares at the far wall in silence, all four hands flattened against the top of the table as he sags like a tapestry cut halfway from its frame.

“<What did you wish for?>” He asks softly.

\--

Variks doesn’t want to think about this, not now that he’s finally reached a daily emotional equilibrium. Neither does he want to brush Skolas off. Not when he’s gotten this far.

Variks leans back. “<I suppose... primarily I wished I’d had more time with them,>” he says, voice quiet. “<I wished that my House had not been so reduced as to be wiped out by the loss of a mere handful of people.>”

\--

“<...>”

Something strange flickers over Skolas’s face. It looks oddly like shame. He frowns before it can settle too clearly, however.

“<Do you wish to talk about it?>”

\--

“<Not particularly,>” Variks says, voice dry, “<But perhaps I should, yes?>” It won’t do to let Skolas slip into irrationality again.

\--

“<You have no obligation to,>” Skolas says quietly.

\--

“<No,>” Variks agrees, “<I do not.>” But as it’s become clear, Skolas has no real obligation to disclose to him either.

“<It’s not as though there’s anything I could have done,>” he continues. “<It was over by the time I learned of it, and even if I could use physical might as a tool, my duties are here.>”

\--

“<I would grant you that might.>” It’s peculiarly soft, Skolas’s expression strangely open. “<If you asked.>”

\--

Variks chuckles, but there’s a wondering laxness on his own face that he can’t seem to banish. “<Thank you, my kell. But such strength shouldn’t be wasted.>”

Skolas would, wouldn’t he? How — odd. Yes, odd.

\--

Slowly, Skolas sinks back into his seat, that gentle laugh pulling at something under his lungs, under the muted tangle of grief and fury. He folds his hands together and shakes his head. 

“<It wouldn’t be a waste.>”

\--

“<It would,>” Variks says gently. “<I doubt the Ghouls even knew the importance of scribes. Overextending your troops and drawing the ire of those monsters would be a waste, my kell, when you have much you must protect right here.>”

\--

“<....>” Closing his eyes, Skolas exhales slowly, twining his fingers together. “<Is there anything I can do for you here?>”

\--

“<Don’t think I don’t notice how you’ve shifted the conversation,>” Variks chides, voice mild with amusement. “<You are already doing all that I could ask. You guarantee my physical safety, and you consider my counsel.>” He gives Skolas a meaningful look. “<Even when you would rather act according to your instincts.>”

\--

“<If only you weren’t so irritatingly sensible,>” Skolas laments, but his tone is mild.

\--

“<Alas,>” Variks says, smiling despite the melancholy Skolas has inflicted on him, “<That is my job, my kell. My calling, the calling of my House.>”

\--

For a little while, Skolas is quiet, letting the words settle over him, taking a moment to sort through the strange knot of entangled thoughts and emotions resting heavily inside his skull. He is calmer now, the spike of boiling rage having died down to drifting steam, but left in its wake is... something a little more uncomfortable.

“<We will keep the Awoken children as ransom,>” he finally rumbles in agreement.

\--

Variks smiles. “<You are wisdom and cunning, my kell,>” he hums, pleased. “<Look at the positives: if the aliens balk, you can crush one of the hatchlings as a demonstration of your sincerity.>”

Distasteful? Yes. Variks oddly finds the idea of dead alien children distasteful. But the comment might make Skolas laugh.

\--

Strangely, it doesn’t. If anything, it seems to drain Skolas somehow, as if the prospect of dealing with them sucks the very soul out of him. He rubs his face and opens his eyes, casting Variks a sidelong look.

“<I pray that the Awoken are a little more sensible than that.>”

\--

“<Most likely, my kell,>” Variks says lightly. He gives Skolas a searching look, at odds with his tone.

\--

Heaving a sigh, Skolas gathers himself up, sending Skriviks a summon for their next meeting. He then pushes himself out his chair, taking a moment to smooth down his cloak and mantle.

“<I’ve been disappointed by them before,>” he intones dryly.

\--

“<You have,>” Variks agrees. 

(Variks wonders what it is that Skolas wishes for.)

\--

Skolas stops a step away from Variks, peering down at him with a strange expression on his face, settled oddly over the tired fizzle of burnt-out anger. Stiffly, tentatively, he reaches out and rests a hand lightly upon Variks’s shoulder, drawing himself up.

“<I’m sorry,>” he says quietly. “<For doubting you. For my distrust.>”

\--

Variks blinks up at Skolas, thoughts stalling. His kell’s hand is very large and very warm. It’s heavy on his upper shoulder even with the care Skolas is taking to be gentle. Wolves are very tactile eliksni, yes, but usually, that doesn’t apply to scribes.

His reflex is to bow, but that would displace Skolas’s hand. “<I accept your apology,>” Variks replies, still blinking. “<I know now that you had... many reasons to assume ill of me.>”

\--

Skolas hangs there for a bit. There is more he wishes to say. There is more he wishes he could express. But his mind is a mess, and grief still nests in his throat, and he lets the conversation end there, releasing Variks’s shoulder.

“<Shall we?>” he says instead, commanding the doors to part.

\--

Variks bows. “<Certainly.>”

The sensation of a warm hand on his shoulder lingers for a long time after he walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Kaliks-12 was High Servitor of Skriviks' Ketch. It was captured during the Cybele Uprising with its mistress." —Petra, Wanted: Kaliks-12 bounty_  
  
  
Fun fact: Unlike most of the noble Wolves in canon, Skriviks was _not_ killed during the Wolf Rebellion! She evidently manages to survive not only the Wolf Hunt, but the Taken War and the initial wave of Red Legion... which we know because she shows up as Skriviks, the Sharp-Eyed in the Spark mission of D2 vanilla in the EDZ, where she seems to have crash-landed with her crew, and where the newly re-Lit Guardian kicks her ass into the ground. Sorry, Skriviks!  
  
Also, it's been almost a year since we first started posting this fic!! Wow!!!  
  
  
_"Kaliks-12, the High Servitor of Skriviks, the Sharp-Eyed, tried to escape, but Abra Zire chased it down.  
Skolas' Cybele Uprising had failed. He, Skriviks, Kaliks-12 and the rest of his leaders were cast into the Queen's prison. The Reef Wars were effectively over."  
\-- The Maraid, Book VIII, Chapter 8, WANTED: Kaliks-12 grimoire card_  
  
_"The [Wolves'] Guards are handpicked from birth, stuffed full of Ether to make them strong and brainwashing to make them unthinkingly loyal to the Kell.  
...  
Affiliations: Skolas, Beltrik, Skriviks"  
\- WANTED: Wolves' Guard grimoire card _


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes Sjur! No one is happy about this.

Kaliks-Hul burns in a death so twisted it leaves a feedback shriek of static burning through the lines for hours afterward.

Baron Veviks had been in charge of a sizable glimmer mining operation on an asteroid cluster in the Belt's inner ring. The crew of the Kaliks-Hul were all well-trained, the experienced members outnumbering the young and new, and the baron himself had a reputation for sticking strictly to best security and safety practices.

The fleet was tightly run: patrols reporting in on the dot, equipment tracked and maintained, every piece of the operation running in perfect, chaotic harmony.

The beginning of their end appeared in the form of a single Reef Galliot warping into one of the skiffs’ patrol paths. The captain of the skiff reported opening fire on it, video feed giving confirmation. The captain reported the sight of something odd; the video feed relaying the strange way space seemed to twist around the ship.

The screams began.

Baron Veviks immediately ordered evac, the ketch’s engines warming up as crew members began mobilizing. The skiffs pulled back from the patrol and into protective formation to buy them all time.

Thirty seconds later, the anomaly breached the Kaliks-Hul’s defenses.

Three minutes later, all the Wolves could hear from the ketch’s crew was screaming.

And then...

Nothing.

Half an hour after the incident, Skolas stares at the screens as the Kaliks-Fel slips out of warp to regroup with some of the surviving skiffs. His head is full of white noise; his teeth dipped in arclight.

“<_Wish-dragons_,>” he hisses.

\--

Skolas is so visibly furious he seems to radiate rage like heat. It has the side effect of causing nearly everyone to vacate the bridge. Variks cannot blame him.

A ketch. A whole ketch, a whole fleet, venerated baron and skilled crews and all, twisted into nothingness. If Variks is feeling disheartened, Skolas surely feels a dozen times more so. If only he knew the words to use.

“<Abominations,>” he says, and his voice is cold as solid air.

\--

Skolas presses his hand to his face, claws set against his mask, eyes blazing with such fury that he cannot speak.

Eventually, slowly, he unstraps himself from his seat and rises, cloak unfurling with a soft ruffle of heavy fabric.

“<I have to see them.>”

\--

Variks surfaces from his dismay, pulled free of it by wariness. “<Who, my kell?>”

\--

"<I have to —>"

Skolas stops suddenly, realizing what he's about to say and remembering exactly who he is. He falls silent, staring at the projections as the surviving skiff crews begin pinging the Kaliks-Fel with boarding requests. The pilot servitor smoothly handles all of it, unbothered by the sight of the kell standing silently in the middle of the bridge.

\--

Them. Who is — 

(Skolas, arms curled around himself defensively, telling him of the Scorch crews.)

Ah.

Variks nods and rises as well, pushing down his unease. “<Ah, of course, my kell. Let us go.>”

\--

He'd expected Variks to be reasonable, so the gentle agreement catches Skolas off-guard. He stares at the scribe, struck speechless again, mandibles working but managing no answer.

\--

Variks looks back at Skolas, placid and expectant.

(Surely, he reasons, Skolas’s presence is much-needed for morale after this crushing reminder of the horrors these aliens can bring. This is not solely due to the thought that it might soothe Skolas’s grief.)

\--

The expectancy is enough to snap Skolas out of his hesitation. He draws himself up, strings together his composure with a firm stitch until none of the jagged, glowing rage shines through.

"<Transmat us to the docking bay, by your leave,>" he requests of the pilot servitor.

\--

Variks steps closer and speaks, voice low enough that the servitor can pretend not to hear. “<They will welcome the sight of you, my kell. You are a reminder that they are still strong.>”

\--

There's a split second for Skolas's expression to crack into something horrifyingly bare before the light of transmat consumes them.

\--

The servitor deposits them into the docking bay's flight control mezzanine. The captain on duty has quite transparently just scrambled to stiff attention on being told that the kell would be coming down shortly.

“<My kell!>” Captain Pelksos blurts, the vandals arrayed around her somehow managing to look even more rigid.

Variks takes the opportunity to look out over the main hangar. It’s a grim sight: the skiffs floating in their docks look just subtly deformed enough to feel wrong, warped by paracausal gravitation. The soldiers being triaged on the deck by a small flock of splicers look intact right up until one pays closer attention: some are twisting their heads back and forth rapidly. Some have their eyes screwed shut as if the low lighting is too bright. Some are communicating with the splicers solely by writing on their comps. And some are staring blankly into the distance.

Unsettling. Unfortunate.

He can sympathize with Skolas’s enraged, terrified bloodlust, seeing this.

\--

"<My crew,>" Skolas says with a proper dip of his head, voice struck through with a poorly hidden roughness. Quieter, he orders, "<Return to your duties.>"

He sweeps out of the mezzanine, slipping past the crowd of startled vandals and down the ramp, heading towards the makeshift infirmary on the deck.

\--

Variks bows a beat behind Skolas and strides as quickly as he can to keep up without looking silly.

(So far, all goes well. Skolas composed yet clearly affected. Appropriate, reassuring.)

\--

The splicers and soldiers all falter at the sight of him. Those who can't see can hear his passage. Those who can’t hear or see can smell the weight of his presence, and those whose senses are nearly gone can feel the bone-shaking vibration of his footsteps.

"<How can I help?>" he asks the overseeing priest before anyone has the chance to scramble into proper supplication. They all stare at him, startled into utter stillness.

"<K-Kell Skolas,>" the high priest — Pirik — utters, arms half swept open.

\--

“<My kell,>” Variks hisses at a pitch that carries just to Skolas’s ears, “<You may wish to comfort and encourage primarily. Put them at ease.>”

Then again, Skolas likely remembers what to do. Variks hasn’t been close to the rank and file of a host House in quite some time; the soldiers with sight look at him oddly, a slight figure behind their towering kell.

\--

"<I can do your heavy lifting,>" Skolas calmly says, because he is many things, but comforting and encouraging has never been one of them.

The half-command is enough to push Pirik into action, at least. She gestures to the stacked crates of medical equipment and medicine, and Skolas gets to work.

\--

Variks trails in Skolas’s wake as he forges his way across the deck, splicers and soldiers turning to watch him when they can. They all know this is work too low for a kell, and they all see Skolas working without complaint all the same, with none of the condescension or smug self-aggrandizement that most other nobles exude when they slum it.

By the time Skolas is fully submerged in the rhythm of the work, Variks has subtly peeled off to assist the splicers, first sitting by a vandal babbling nonstop to speak soothingly and take notes, then helping a splicer with inventory, then listening gravely to the accounts of several dregs. Eventually, they stop looking at him oddly and accept him into the triage flow, just as they have accepted Skolas. It's good, honest work amid hopelessness—an excellent impulse on Skolas's part.

\--

Skolas's presence streamlines the supply chain: everything Pirik asks for is approved immediately. Everything the survivors need is transmatted in on command. Everything the assisting servitors do not have the spare power to haul, Skolas is there to move. He does the legwork that would otherwise take precious time away from the lower-ranked splicers.

The Kaliks-Fel regroups with other surviving skiffs as the hours pass: hundreds of survivors, all similarly afflicted. There are close calls: internal injuries that required transmats directly into the ship's dedicated infirmary. A team of miners had to be put into cryo to keep them stable enough to be transported into the archon's care. Pirsis's fleet joins them, injecting into the efforts an influx of severely needed assistance.

It is fifteen hours later that Skolas finally finds himself sliding to the floor, too exhausted to keep moving. Leaning against a crate of carefully packed ether tanks, he watches as the people around him continue to rush about. Somehow it's become even more hectic.

\--

Variks works his way across the room to Skolas's side, successfully managing to avoid revealing that he's using his staff to remain standing.

For the last few hours, he's mainly been helping keep the afflicted soldiers calm, placidly holding conversations while splicers rushed around them. It's more mental work than physical, but it leaves him drained all the same.

“<An impressively coordinated response,>” Variks says, leaning casually against the crates next to Skolas.

\--

Skolas put away his cloak and mantle much earlier when they'd become too encumbering, after too many close calls with delicate medical equipment. It leaves him feeling oddly bare, now, under the curious gaze of passing people.

"<It was needed,>" he rumbles, turning to look at Variks, glad for the distraction.

\--

“<It was,>” Variks agrees. “<You did very well.>”

Skolas showed no signs of desperation or panic, merely stalwart support. This will strengthen Skolas’s image immensely, and morale along with it.

\--

The praise makes something tighten under his lungs, a little ache under all the other aches. Skolas stares wordlessly at Variks before abruptly deciding that he's far too tired to try sorting any of it out.

"<You should rest,>" he says. "<We have more than enough people to help now.>"

\--

“<Of course.>” Variks leans just a smidgen more heavily against the crates. “<I do believe they have it handled.>”

Priest Pirik looks tired, of course, but in remarkably good spirits. The wounded soldiers are mostly calm, and the splicers, though they’re being run ragged, don’t look hopeless. Really, it’s all they could ask for: a disaster, but one where their kell put his presence firmly in everyone’s minds.

\--

Pushing heavily onto his feet, Skolas brushes the dust off of his armor and then offers his hand for Variks to take. 

"<I'll accompany you to the officers' lounge,>" he says. "<We can get a better view of things from there.>"

\--

Variks blinks at the offered hand but takes it before he can really puzzle out all the factors here. (Is Skolas becoming more tactile out of trust? Is this appropriate in view of the public?) After all, it wouldn’t do to snub him.

“<Certainly.>”

\--

If Skolas notices the hesitation, he doesn't comment on it.

The trip to the lounge is an unhurried one, Skolas keeping his long strides in check to match Variks's pace. The lounge itself is tucked away in an alcove behind the control platform mezzanine. It is empty for the moment with the officers still in the middle of their shifts or otherwise occupied by the rescue operations.

"<Here,>" Skolas says, pulling a chair out for Variks at one of the tables.

\--

The sensation of walking side by side with his hand placed decorously on Skolas’s lower elbow is... disconcerting.

“<Thank you,>” Variks says, his confusion deepening as he takes the seat. Is this normal? He doesn’t remember anymore; it’s been too long. How demoralizing.

\--

"<It's no trouble.>"

The hours seem to have worn Skolas down. His rage is gone, replaced by a muted exhaustion instead, just smoke and embers. His kell body should have easily tolerated more than fifteen hours of work without getting exhausted, and yet he looks like he's been run ragged for days. 

It doesn't help that the officer's lounge isn't appropriately sized for a kell, leaving him stooping so as not to scrape his helmet against the ceiling as he tugs an ether feed down from the dispenser above the table.

"<Take this.>" He offers the line to Variks.

\--

Variks accepts it automatically, hooking it into his mask and keying in his scribe permissions. The officer-grade ether flows into his mouth and bolsters his strength even as he gives Skolas a searching look.

He thinks talking might do Skolas good. He thinks Skolas might not self-censor as much, tired as he is.

\--

Without an appropriately sized chair, Skolas takes the moment to fold himself down onto the floor next to Variks, leaning against one of the seats with a soft sigh. He probably should have retired to the nobles’ quarters instead, where there is kell-sized furniture, but there is no window to the docking bay there. 

"<At least there aren't bodies,>" he murmurs, watching people move through the busy deck.

\--

“<Oh?>” Variks says, gently prompting.

\--

"<Do you remember?>" His voice is strangely distant. "<The hallways were so full of bodies after the Scatter. There wasn’t room to move.>"

\--

“<...>” Variks slowly leans his staff against the table. “<I did not see as much of the results of the Scatter as you did,>” he says softly. “<What I saw... yes, it was grim indeed.>”

\--

"<Probably for the better that you didn't see.>" Turning, Skolas peers at Variks, drawing a knee up and draping his arm over it. "<Even used to death, it was... not easy for me.>"

\--

“<I would have rather seen,>” Variks says seriously, “<If only to understand your grief more fully.>” It has taken him far too long to truly grasp the depth of Skolas’s devotion. Wasted time.

\--

Silence for a while. Skolas wipes a smear of carapace glue off of his mask, sinking into that quiet, turning Variks's words over in his mind. When he finally does speak, his tones are oddly subdued.

"<No one should have to see that much death.>"

\--

“<No.>” Variks watches Skolas’s face. “<No, they should not.>”

What was it like, before the Whirlwind? What was it like, when nearly every eliksni could expect to live until their bodies gave out?

“<Someday,>” Variks says, low and fierce, “<Our children will all grow to be old.>”

\--

Skolas smiles, but it's indulgent and wistful as if what Variks said was nothing more than a distant, pleasant daydream.

"<I would fight for that,>" he murmurs.

\--

“<You will,>” Variks says softly. “<You already do, my kell.>”

\--

"<....>"

It's too close, somehow. Too vulnerable. Skolas shifts slightly, feeling as if he'd been laid bare by the words.

"<The Awoken don't seem too interested in making it easy for us,>" he says, keeping his eyes on the window. "<We're down one of the most experienced mining fleets in the House.>"

\--

“<Indeed,>” Variks says, leaning back to give Skolas some more room to breathe. “<Their choice of targets... suspiciously good, yes?>”

\--

"<We begin fixing the shiplinks and now another hole opens wide.>" Skolas casts Variks a look of bemusement. "<If we ever get our hands on that traitor, I am going to take great pleasure making their death slow.>"

\--

“<You will have no argument from me,>” Variks says grimly. “<The results indicate that their intel is far too comprehensive to have been extracted by force.>”

\--

"<Kaliks Minor has been running the simulations.>" Exhaling, Skolas folds his upper arms together. "<This is a blow to our glimmer stores, but it's not an irreversible loss. On this end at least, we are fortunate.>"

\--

A surprising conclusion, given the magnitude of this loss, but a welcome one. “<That is good news indeed, my kell. And perhaps with the shiplink vulnerability patched, the traitor will no longer be able to pinpoint the fleet movements.>”

\--

"<One more small step towards security,>" Skolas agrees. Then, voice wired through with something just a little shaken, "<They have wish-dragons.>"

\--

Variks scowls. “<Fools. I cannot fathom how they are keeping themselves from being consumed. They must be leveraging their own paracausality somehow.>”

\--

"<They've never used wish-dragons against us before,>" Skolas muses. "<The price for their services must be steep.>"

\--

“<Perhaps they do not want witnesses,>” Variks mutters darkly.

\--

"<I heard the whispers from the miners.>" Curling his fingers together, Skolas stares down at them. "<That it's the same operative directing them. The one wielding the bow.>"

\--

“<...Hm.>” Variks narrows his gaze into the distance, mulling this over. “<Perhaps it was scouting, then. Preparing for a strike such as this.>”

\--

"<We should have hunted it down before it had the chance to go this far,>" Skolas whispers bitterly.

\--

“<To be fair,>” Variks says, “<If it is as dangerous as this, that might not have gone so well.>”

\--

That makes Skolas stop, scowling at his lap. He covers his face with two hands, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to relieve the pressure within his head, breathing slowly.

"<Another million lives lost, Variks,>" Skolas utters. "<Another million lives lost and we couldn't have done anything to prevent it?>"

\--

Variks shrugs. “<Perhaps. All I do know is that we did not act foolishly or arrogantly. So this is not a just consequence of negligence: merely a tragedy.>”

\--

That draws Skolas into the quiet again, his head resting against the side of the chair as his hand falls away to rest against the floor. He stares out at the deck at the sight of the hundreds of injured Wolves, and he feels small. So, very, very small.

\--

Skolas is well within arm’s reach. Variks stares at his shoulder, bare of cloak and mantle as it so rarely is while they’re on duty. It’s just about at eye level. The windows of the officers’ deck are one-way tinted.

He reaches out an upper hand and places it gently on Skolas’s shoulder. It feels appropriate. Surely the impropriety can be forgiven, given the circumstances.

\--

The touch is so light, Skolas isn't sure he'd have noticed it at all if he hadn't heard the soft slide of a gloved hand over the armor on his shoulder. If he weren't so utterly drained, he might have jolted. As it is, it merely pulls a gentle string of warm surprise out from under the soul-deep weight of sorrow.

He turns his dimmed eyes to Variks, just a micron of tension draining from him. Slowly, he reaches up to lightly place his hand atop Variks's in wordless gratitude.

There's a glow inside his chest that he doesn't think to examine. It's enough of a blessing that Variks is here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _""This was on her body, Your Grace."  
A strange coin lay at the center of Abra's outstretched palm. Mara took it between thumb and forefinger and held up it to the cosmos with dainty contempt.  
Weregild, she thought. Powerful grief filled her chest, as thick and caustic and heavy as unset concrete.  
"And her bow?"  
"Gone."  
"Huginn? Muninn?"  
"The Ahamkara are dead, and their bones are silent. But Petra Venj has—""  
\-- Oathkeeper lore, exotic arms_  
  
  
It's astonishingly difficult to tell when exactly Sjur Eido died. According to Oathkeeper, she died shortly before Hygiea was attacked, which would put her death right around the Raze of Amethyst and the Battle of Iris... but she also recruits Misraaks and is evidently present for his help in downing several House ketches, which presumably would have been a little further into the Reef Wars. Additionally, a "Captain Eriviks" is mentioned as a sworn enemy of hers, so when would that have happened, given that the Reef largely didn't engage with eliksni until the Reef Wars? But who knows?  
  
Given that a lot of stuff is moving around anyway, we've pushed her presence way out into the timeline, so she can go commit war crimes! Hooray!

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to consummate editor [MonkeysInPants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeysInPants)!
> 
> Comments and kudos always appreciated!


End file.
